


The Handyman's Special

by Carrieosity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Academia, Bad Puns, Coming Out, Contractor Castiel, Counselor Sam Winchester, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Grumpy Castiel (Supernatural), Happy Ending, Home Improvement, Innuendo, Intercrural Sex, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Mild Angst, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, OSHA violations, Oblivious Dean Winchester, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Professor Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Rimming, Safer Sex, Sassy Meg Masters, Self-Worth Issues, Sex Jokes, Smart Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: Dr. Dean Winchester, professor of Mechanical Engineering, was full of confidence in his own abilities when he decided to purchase a fixer-upper house to rehab and remodel on his own. Now, standing in the middle of  his new house and praying the floors won’t cave in, he’s realizing that determination and academic brilliance might only take him so far this time. The bigger problem: his overconfidence in the face of other people’s doubts (ahem, Sam) means that asking for help now will  mean swallowing a whole lot of pride…and he’d rather not.Hiring a secret contractor to do the work without telling anyone seems like the perfect solution.Accidentally hiring an amazingly hot secret contractor wasn’t part of the plan.And when Sam overhears a conversation and starts connecting dots, a snap decision and another lie on top the first leads to a ridiculous balancing act of fake stories, pretend relationships, and one hell of a renovation tale.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 242
Kudos: 835
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Great Potential, Needs Some TLC

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fourth [DeanCasPinefest](https://deancaspinefest.tumblr.com/)! For the past three years, I've been neck-deep in angst and drama and tears, and while that's definitely a barrel of fun, it's not precisely my usual forte. In my heart of hearts, I'm a sucker for wisecracking, pun-filled, teasing and laughing _fun._ And as far as I'm concerned, there's no reason why pining and humor can't coexist.
> 
> This story came from a conversation I had two years ago with [captainhaterade](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/), right before I made the decision to go with the historical coal miner story instead. This one wouldn't leave me alone, though, and I knew I'd wind up writing it eventually. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I did.
> 
> For this year's Pinefest, I got to work, once again and with great pleasure, with [delicirony](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony) ([delicious-irony](http://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr), whose art is always amazing and who deserves all manner of cookies and hot half-naked contractors. Big props and power tools also go to my wonderful beta reader, [ Shannon_Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shannon_Kind) ([shannon-kind](https://shannon-kind.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr).

“...but, of course, as we’ve discussed, those are all things a buyer must expect whenever a house has been vacant for an extended length of time,” the realtor was saying. Miss Talbot led the way back through the hallway and into the bare front room of the empty house, the click of her kitten heels muffled against the stained and threadbare carpet. Everything about her perfectly tailored presentation fell in sharp contrast to the state of the house around them, though from her smug expression, she might have been walking a red carpet instead. “My clients had the last of the remaining furniture removed from the garage last week, so all is in order. I trust there are no lingering concerns at this point, Dean?”

“I don’t suppose there are,” replied the soon-to-be-homeowner, following along behind. Dean wasn’t paying much attention to the prattling aimed in his direction; he had been too busy allowing his eyes to wander around the dusty rooms with peeling paint, making plans and visualizing a very different house in his future. Unimpressed, Miss Talbot (“Please, call me Bela,” she’d said with a toss of her hair and a coy tilt of her chin; flirting seemed to be one of her primary sales techniques) sniffed at his obvious distraction. She turned toward a document-covered temporary folding table with far less swing to her hips than she’d exhibited during most of the closing walk-through. 

“All right, then I have everything here we need to proceed. Jenna?” A young blonde woman, primly silent, nodded in acknowledgment. “Jenna is our in-house notary. As soon as we have your signature in all the relevant places, she’ll make everything official. I trust you brought with you…?” Her words trailed away with a questioning lift as one corner of her mouth quirked upwards in a slight smirk. 

Dean closed his eyes to keep from rolling them. “Yeah, I have the check. All certified and everything.”

“Good, good.” Miss Talbot’s cheerful smile flashed brightly and was gone, swiftly replaced with something more sharp. “And, of course, you understand that your contract with my clients establishes that you are aware of the nature and condition of the house? That, in exchange for what is frankly a _shamefully_ low price and an expedited sales process, you are agreeing to assume responsibility for any defects or necessary repairs, whether or not you’ve noted them before signing?”

Already nodding, Dean bent awkwardly over the realtor’s rickety table and scanned the forms spread across the surface. Nothing surprising appeared to lurk among any of the legal stipulations and real estate jargon. He was no fool; he’d spent hours studying the various forms involved, as well as reading terrifying internet tales of homebuyers who’d been duped into paying hundreds of thousands of dollars beyond what they should have paid, considering what they received in exchange. “Sure, sure. _Caveat emptor_ and all that. I know what I’m getting into.”

“Yes, you do seem like a man who knows his way around a toolbox,” Miss Talbot purred. She was laying it on pretty thick, Dean felt, for someone who was about ninety seconds away from a hefty commission. “I’m sure that whatever arises, you’re more than capable of handling it. Er, just right there, next to the highlighted spot?” 

The moment Dean had finished scrawling his signature across the bottom of the page, she whipped it away from him and pushed it in front of the notary, who already had her stamp practically hovering in place. The briskness was enough to give Dean a little pause, but he brushed it away, telling himself that any sense of a trap ready to snap closed around him was probably just nerves finally kicking in. _Nothing to worry about; just stupid Sam and his stupid worries, messing with my head._

“And there…and now there,” Miss Talbot finished, sounding more and more like the cat who’d gotten the canary with every signature. Another fleeting thought crossed Dean’s mind that perhaps she sounded a bit too pleased, all things considered; maybe the market was slower than he’d thought, if she was getting this excited over a short sale. Then again, she wasn’t going to have to split the fees with anyone else, since he hadn’t brought in an agent of his own, so that probably explained the gleam of anticipation in her eye. His younger brother had lectured him for that choice, too, but _whatever._ Dean knew his way around fine print. He was a goddamned professor, after all, and Dean Winchester, Ph.D., didn’t need any hand-holding to read a contract.

With one final _thunk_ of the notary stamp, the handing off of a check in exchange for a set of keys, and a handshake that lingered just long enough for Dean to start to feel a bit uncomfortable, it was done. He was officially a homeowner. By the time that weighty realization had settled into his mind fully, the front door was closing with a click behind the agent, and he was by himself in the house. _His_ house.

After all his earlier warnings and dire predictions, now that the ink was dry and the deed was done, Sam was at least trying to show a little more enthusiasm than he had before now. “You really don’t want me to see the place yet?” he said, repeating himself for the third or fourth time, over the phone. His voice was a little muffled on Dean’s end, since Dean was currently attempting to hold the cell between his shoulder and cheek while shoving large cardboard boxes into a corner of what would eventually be the dining room. Some of the fraying carpet tufts kept snagging on the edges of the box, turning what should have been an easy slide into a frustrating, halting struggle. The slide over the last few feet was accompanied by the sound of quiet ripping. Whoops.

“Nah, you’ll have to be patient along with everyone else,” Dean finally managed to reply, dusting his hands on his jeans as he stood up. “She’s not quite ready for primetime, if you catch my drift, but just you wait. By the time I’m finished, she’s gonna be amazing.” He wiped some sweat from his brow and grinned, despite his tiredness.

“And you still plan to do all the work yourself?” Sam said dubiously. “When Eileen and I bought this place, we had her brothers and her old roommates helping us with everything, and that was just painting walls, changing all the locks, and installing the doorbell lights and other stuff. On top of the actual moving in, we were all completely exhausted by the end.”

Dean winced, unable to suppress the twinge of guilt in his gut. “You know I would have helped—”

“Not remotely what I’m getting at,” Sam interrupted, “and I know. Surgery on four impacted wisdom teeth, Dean. You were a little occupied that week.”

“Only for the first day.”

“Yeah, and I really wanted my bedroom painted by someone drugged out of their mind on painkillers,” Sam said dryly. “Forget it. Not the point, anyway. I’m trying to say that, from everything you’ve told me and what I’ve been able to infer, you’re going to have a lot more on your plate than some cosmetic touch-ups. Sheer physicality aside, Dean, you have no experience with any of this. You’re only going to get so far through HGTV reruns and sheer force of will.”

Dean leaned against a wall and scowled at the ceiling. They were back to this again. “Sam, I’m a mechanical engineer.”

“Mechanical engineering _professor,_ Dean! Not a mechanic! I’m not saying one’s better than the other, but they’re not interchangeable! When’s the last time you stood in front of a classroom with a broken furnace and a wrench, or showed your students how to put up drywall? Your dissertation was about robot kinetics!”

“Kinematics,” Dean automatically corrected. “Computational kinematics, bitch. There’s a difference. And that doesn’t matter, because it’s the principle of the thing. But you know what? Screw you. You’re so sure I’m going to crash and burn that you don’t _want_ to hear anything to the contrary. That just hurts, man. Thought counselors were supposed to be about emotional support and understanding and shit, _doctor._ ”

Sure, Dean might have been laying it on a little thick there at the end, but part of him was feeling genuinely hurt and justified about feeling so. He idly picked at some loose and bubbling plaster in the corner while he talked, watching the tiny particles rain down on the toes of his boots.

“No, that’s not…I’m not…” Sam was stammering, flustered. “I’m trying to be supportive, Dean. Support is not the same thing as blind approval, though. I _care_ about you, and I just don’t want you to do that thing where you dig in your heels and refuse to admit when you’ve made a mistake until you’re in way over your head. It’s okay to ask for help. And I really, really think this is a situation that calls for it.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Dean said. An aching twinge in the side of his jaw reminded him to stop clenching it, and he took a deep breath to clear his frustration. 

“And I don’t think you are. Believe me, I know how intelligent and capable you are. I just think you need to be realistic. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot because you were too proud to back down, okay? Your goal is a nice house, not just bragging rights.” Sam huffed a short laugh and added, “And I’m a relationship counselor, not a life coach, Dean. Though I suppose that, in this case, I’m counseling you on your relationship with all the people around you who just want to see you happy.”

“Yeah, sure.” In the background of the call, Dean could hear the clanking of pots and pans. “Eileen’s night to cook?” he asked.

Sam hummed an affirmative response. “You know you’re always welcome to join us. I think she’s making chard pansotti tonight.”

“Mmm, sounds great,” Dean said with unconvincing enthusiasm, torn between his solid respect for his sister-in-law and his urge to make one of his usual jabs about the disgusting amount of health food consumed at their home. “I already grabbed a quick dinner on campus, though.”

“Vending machine sandwiches again?” Sam guessed, and his frown was audible in his tone. “You know you deserve better than that. Maybe even to eat with other actual people.” Before Dean could do more than draw breath to reply, Sam added, “Besides Meg, I mean. Eating with your TA doesn’t count. She’s paid to be there.”

“Hey, Kevin was there, too,” Dean tried to argue. “I mean, he was there waiting for his mom to drive him home, but there was legitimate conversation involved.” Sam made an exasperated sound, and Dean rubbed at his temples in resignation. “Okay, point. But that’s sort of what I’m trying to do here, you know? This house, it’s got a genuine dining room. I won’t have to pull a card table into the living room if I want to feed more than four people. With a little polish, I can have this place primed for departmental dinner parties, even.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “That would be really good for you,” he finally said. “I’d like to see you have that. When’s the last time you even went out to any kind of party, let alone hosted one?” That was a rhetorical question, not a real one; Dean’s lack of an immediate comeback only confirmed the sad reality of it all.

How the hell had he gotten here? In his undergraduate years, and through most of his twenties, the only issue with Dean’s social life had been the struggle to cram it all in without winding up hungover more than three days out of the week. There had been girls. Oh, had there been girls. There had been guys, too, though his little brother neither knew nor needed to know anything about that, as far as Dean was concerned. There had even been a couple of people with whom the casual sex had evolved into something less casual, with leanings toward _serious,_ but…well. 

“You know, they don’t just hand out tenure without demanding sweat equity in return,” Dean replied evasively. That was certainly true. He’d seen more than a few colleagues slide away from the tenure track in the name of “work-life balance.” In fact, his own last attempt at a real relationship had crashed and burned when Lisa had finally gotten fed up with his long hours and frequent work-related distractions. Since then, Dean had limited himself to casual hook-ups only, both out of self-preservation and insurance against hurting anyone else whose hopes might grow to exceed what he was able to give.

It definitely made it easier to focus. A quiet, empty apartment was good for that much. A quiet, empty…lonely apartment.

“All the same,” Sam went on, “a dog would have been a lot cheaper than a house, if you were looking for company. Ow!” There were sudden noises indicating a brief scuffle, to the sound of Sam protesting mildly and with laughter.

“Not everyone needs a dog,” Dean heard Eileen voicing out loud, since her hands were apparently more occupied with swatting at Sam than signing. “To Dog or Not To Dog” was a long-standing debate between the couple, and while neither of them was yielding ground yet, Dean would place money on Sam’s puppy-dog eyes eventually winning out. “Tell Dean if he’s bored, he can come help out at the senior center.”

Unable to keep from grinning, Dean raised his voice to say, “Tell Eileen I’ve still got pinch marks on my ass from the last time I went down there for dance night.”

“Ugh, Dean,” Sam said as he recovered the phone, but his amusement was obvious. “Anyway, I think you’ve bought yourself more than enough work to fill your schedule for a while. What’s first priority, anyway? Make sure the plumbing works, so you can actually shower and use the toilet without having to run across town to campus?”

The sun had truly set while the brothers had been speaking, throwing the living room into darkness outside of the small glow provided by a street lamp outside the front window. Dean swept a palm across the wall, searching for the switch to turn on the overhead light. With a click, the room was lit—and then momentarily darkened again. Then the light was back on again, with a wavering, flickering glow that seemed to pulse irregularly in brightness. A tiny buzzing sound was barely perceptible, but undeniably present in the wall behind the switch. “Huh,” Dean said as he eyed the light. “Think I might start with the electricity.” 

“Son of a bitch…”

His mistake, probably, had been trusting the online Yelp reviews for the home inspector he’d hired during the negotiations. The website for Spengler Inspections had boasted glowing praise from happy customers, along with a professional-looking design and clearly stated rates and services. One of Dean’s pet peeves was when businesses refused to provide a price tag until you’d committed to signing on the dotted line, so the last factor alone had been a huge one. When Harry Spengler himself had shown up to do the inspection, Dean had realized he was dealing with a one-man shop—not a deal-breaker, but the first of a cascading series of disconcerting revelations that had peaked with Spengler’s shifty request for a cash payment instead of a check.

Really, Dean should definitely have known something was wrong when the whole inspection was over and done in twenty minutes.

Electricity was something Dean knew well. He could map circuit boards in his sleep. Hell, he’d actually done that and more, often rousing from exhausted stupors as a grad student to find his bed covered in scrap paper and messy pencil scratchings of schematics he had no recollection of having drawn. Tracking down a problem circuit now should have been a matter of minutes, even considering that he was navigating by the flashlight on his camera to avoid starting fires from any other badly wired lights before he handled this one.

Locating the breaker box in the dark basement would have been an extra challenge if he hadn’t already noted, with mild curiosity, how the box was almost hidden completely behind a stubby brick wall segment that inexplicably jutted inward from the foundation wall. It almost looked as though the builder had been going for a shower stall, especially considering the mystery pipes bolted onto the brick and attached to nothing else, but that would make no logical sense. Who builds a shower around an electrical breaker?

It was rusted shut. “Goddamn it, Harry,” Dean muttered. Apparently, the inspector hadn’t even bothered to open the panel door. Who had written those rave reviews, the guy’s mom? Placing his phone on top of the box so he could use both hands, Dean pried and pulled and jiggled and swore until the door finally opened with a shower of rust flakes and a loud creak. His elation was brief, though.

“You’re kidding me,” he growled. At first glance, it appeared that not a single one of the dozens of breakers were labeled. At second glance, he found that many of them _were_ labeled, but the labels were badly faded and peeling; some had fallen into an unhelpful pile at the bottom of the box. The few that remained in place and were legible conveyed such helpful information as “J’s room” or “Pop’s cooler.” One large breaker was simply emblazoned “NO!” which raised more questions than it answered. There were no signs of anything that looked like “Living room,” “Front room,” or “Big room at the front of the house with the nasty green paint job.”

Trial and error it was, then. Luckily, for varying definitions of the concept, that little buzzing sound was actually louder where he was standing than they had been upstairs. Dean started systematically throwing the breakers one at a time, listening intently for the culprit that would cause the buzzing to stop. 

Unfortunately, none of them did. Was the sound getting louder, in fact? Probably just his imagination again. Damn it, so much for simple. With a sigh, he went back to the first breaker, shut it off, then trudged upstairs to see if it had been the one connected to the light.

Three dozen trips later (somebody was evidently unaware that there was an upper limit on the number of circuits you could safely have on one panel), Dean still hadn’t found the right circuit. “The hell?” he said to himself, squinting at the light and scratching his head. The power had to be coming from somewhere. Another breaker box? But where? On the outside of the house? That was possible, but he could hear the sharp clattering of rain blowing hard against the windows, and he didn’t relish searching blindly in the dark _and_ a rainstorm.

Tomorrow. It could wait until then, he decided, and flipped the wall switch back down. “Okay,” he said aloud as he stood in the darkness. “This is…okay. It’s fine. I’ll just…” Running a hand over his face, he took a deep breath. _Just a bad start. I am_ not _going to give up and prove Sammy right at the first sign of trouble._

“Can’t end the night on a note like this,” he declared, once again speaking out loud to nobody. Jesus, he’d never talked out loud to himself so much in his life, but something about the echoing emptiness of the house had him feeling a little rattled. “Gotta…gotta have a win, and then I can crash for the night.” Luckily, he still had his old place for another couple of weeks before the lease ended. Something inside him was beginning to whisper that he’d need every last day of that period. 

There was a small room just off the front hall, too cramped for a guest room. Dean had immediately seen it transformed into an office, all dark polished wood and brass desk ornaments, the moment he first stepped inside. At the moment, it boasted the most hideous pale purple carpet he’d ever seen, but that wouldn’t be a difficult fix. Even if there wasn’t hardwood floor underneath that nastiness, Dean figured that ripping out the ugly and then sticking down some reasonably nice laminate flooring couldn’t be too challenging. 

Deciding not to risk exploring the electrical system of the house any further than he had already, he pulled his jacket over his head and dashed out to the trunk of his car, where he always kept a decent battery-powered work light in case of emergencies. The lamp was more than capable of lighting the modest-sized room, at least for his current purposes. Back inside and dropping to his knees on the purple carpet, Dean was immediately hit with an odor that had him grimacing. The former owners had obviously had pets, and those pets had left their own sort of mark on the home before leaving. All the more motivation to get this carpet out, as soon as possible.

Dean poked his fingers into the corner and was startled to find an inch-long gap between the sections of baseboard. Okay, he wasn’t going to complain about shoddy workmanship this time, not when it would make his task easier. Digging his fingertips into the gap, he yanked, pulling the baseboard off with a solid, satisfying crack.

Dean grinned wickedly. _Back on track._

The edge of the sickly purple carpet was completely visible now, so once he’d gotten rid of the rest of the wood from around the edges of the room, he scrabbled for the loosest bit he could find, getting as much of a grip as he could before pulling. The carpet, unlike the baseboards, stubbornly refused to move.

“Oh, don’t you even try to mess with me right now,” Dean growled. “If I have to _burn_ your nasty ass out, I will get my damn lighter and we will _dance,_ motherfu—” His angry monologue was interrupted as a patch of the fiber gripped in his hand abruptly parted ways with the floor beneath, sending him tumbling backward onto his rear. “Hah,” he smirked triumphantly, rolling back onto his knees to examine the results.

It wasn’t hardwood, that was for certain. It wasn’t even unfinished subfloor. “Those assholes _,_ ” Dean sighed. Roughly-poured concrete, and what looked to be a thick layer of glue covering almost the entire surface. It was too much to hope, he supposed, that they might have at least gone easy on the adhesive. Scraping all this off was going to be deep-fried hell.

Figuring he might as well get started and do as much as he could, Dean took out his pocket knife and started cutting. At least with concrete, he didn’t have to worry about accidentally carving into anything nicer underneath the layer of skanky muppet pelt. Smaller segments of carpet would hopefully be easier to pull up than one big one. With every slash of his knife, he grumbled a stream of increasingly foul words describing his rising level of irritation. Irrationally, his brain had decided that the whole mess was at least partly Sam’s fault; if he hadn’t insisted so loudly that renovating this place was going to be too difficult for Dean to handle alone, the universe wouldn’t be trying to get in on the betting action. “I should put some of this under the floor mats of his car,” Dean groused. “See how long it takes him to figure out where the smell’s coming from.” It was a pleasant fantasy, and it carried him through the next few square feet of cutting and ripping.

Near the center of the room, the pet stink grew steadily stronger. Breathing through his mouth and working as quickly as he could, Dean was caught off guard when the carpet suddenly decided to cooperate with the mission, a large section pulling free easily as the pocket knife scored a seam. “The hell?” Dean said, frowning. Better not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he decided. All the better to get the worst of the odor out of the house and start to clear the air, and, hey, he was due for _something_ to go right.

His first thought, when he ripped away the section, was one of _“Oops, oh, shit."_ Beneath his knife mark was another line, and he had a second to panic, thinking he’d carved too deeply and dug into the floor beneath. Then his brain caught up with his gut, and he made a face at his own ridiculousness. He ran a finger over the crack in the concrete, noting the depth, as he kept pulling at the carpet. The crack continued, further and further across the floor, and by the time he’d pulled up four feet of the carpet with no sign of the crack’s end, he was back to panicking again.

“This is _not_ okay,” he mumbled faintly, falling backward onto his ass once more and letting the knife fall limply from his hand. “That can _not_ be a good thing. Shit.” Dean only had internet stories to back him up on this sort of thing, but it didn’t take a construction expert to know that “cracked foundation” sounded…bad. Very, very bad. And expensive. And decidedly, completely, _not_ something Dean was ever going to be able to handle without the help of professionals.

Sam was going to laugh his ass off at how badly Dean had screwed himself. No, he wouldn’t; he’d be all _sorry_ and _sympathetic,_ and that would be worse. Would there even be a big “I told you so” moment, with something this massively bad? Or would the words just lurk there, unspoken but obvious, while Sam patted him on the fucking _back_ and told Dean he could move into his fucking _basement—_

He couldn’t tell him. Not yet; not until he was absolutely sure that there was no way out of this mess. He could still be wrong, right? It wasn’t as if masonry was part of Dean’s educational background. Sure, he could state categorically that the electricity appeared to be fucked, even if he didn’t have the specifics yet on just how or how badly, but he wasn’t ready to admit that the scope of the problem was on the level of a reality show nightmare. _You agree to assume responsibility for any defects or necessary repairs._ The realtor’s words, playing on repeat in Dean’s brain, carried a tone of malicious amusement at his expense.

When Dean pulled out his phone, it was to open an internet search page. A home inspector (God, not Spengler; Dean had half a mind to look into negligence claims or something) would be able to tell him for certain whether or not he was completely screwed, but that’s all they’d do. A contractor would be able to not only give him the facts, but also to help him out if the truth turned out to be catastrophic. Of course, they would probably be biased toward telling him he needed a ton of work even if he didn’t. Dean eyed the crack again, then sighed. What he really needed was a miracle—someone who would come in discreetly, fix what needed fixing, and make all of this go away.

“Got anything like that?” he asked his phone sarcastically. For shits and giggles, he typed “Home repair miracles” into the search bar, then clicked.

The search results flashed across the screen, and Dean nearly choked on his surprised laugh. The first result on the page was some business called “Deus Ex Mechanicals.” The timing of the pun was too perfect, and he immediately tapped the link to check them out. 

_“Is your home in need of some divine intervention? Our licensed and certified professionals can work miracles for you! From roofing and exteriors to plumbing and electrical work, our mission is to offer homeowners customized service in any area, big or small. Got a complicated or constrained schedule? Just ask! Night or day, we want to be the answer to your prayers.”_

Above the text was a photo of a large brick modern house, surrounded by an artfully glowing nimbus, obviously meant to evoke thoughts of halos. Besides that, the company’s logo itself incorporated a tiny set of wings sprouting from the sides of the name. All things taken as a package, it was apparent that subtlety had been weighed against humor and come up short.

It didn’t matter. Dean had been hooked from the moment he’d read the words “night or day.” Maybe he could pull this off after all, and nobody else would ever need to know. Dialing, he waited impatiently for the person on the other end to pick up. “Hello? My name is Dean Winchester, and I was hoping I could talk to someone about my new house.” 


	2. The Foundation: Getting (Really, Really) Low

The first available service slot was only a couple of days later, but it felt like a lifetime. Dean, pacing nervously as he waited, checked his watch for what must have been the twentieth time since arriving back at the house that evening. ( _His_ house. That concept was still going to take some time to sink in before it would stop feeling surreal.) _Nine-oh-seven._ Jesus, he was getting antsy, freaking out over all the ways this could go wrong. 

Sam could show up unexpectedly.

Some curious person who knew both Dean and Sam could pop in to take a peek.

The repair guy could refuse to go along with the weirdness of sneaking around like a damn undercover agent.

The repair guy could sign on for the weirdness, but only because he’ll have Dean by the financial throat over a house that’s just one good breeze away from either cracking completely in half or going up in a giant fireball.

Hell, the house could _actually_ crack in half or blow up before anything else had a chance to happen. 

A car sped past along a neighboring street, and the sound of the engine startled Dean, sending him spinning around to stare toward the room where his burgeoning nervous breakdown had been born. Office, ha. At this rate, he was going to wind up needing to install padded walls in there instead of oak bookcases.

Another engine noise, closer this time, pulled his attention back toward the open front door. Outside, a big white conversion van was easing up to park along the curb. Even in the dark, the bright golden wings of the Deus Ex logo painted on the side seemed to glow ostentatiously. Dean winced, hurrying through the door and out onto the porch, just as a man threw open the driver’s side door and slid out of the van.

“Dude, dude,” Dean tried to call without making too much noise. “You were supposed to…I told the guy on the phone who made the appointment. I need you to pull the van around back and park there. You can drive through the grass on the left side of the house; it’s fine.”

As he tried urgently to correct the miscommunication, the driver was making his way around the front of the van, head tilted and eyes narrowed in what looked like suspicion. “I wasn’t informed of that,” he replied. His voice was deep and rough, a rumbling thing that stirred something in Dean’s chest, but one that, thankfully, would probably not be intelligible at a distance by any nosy neighbors. “I can carry anything that needs to go back there, without ruining either your yard or the undercarriage of the van.”

“Look, it’s not that far, and the van will be f—fuh… ” As he spoke, Dean and the other man finally reached each other, coming face to face on the sidewalk. When the light from the street lamps illuminated the contractor’s features and let Dean get his first good look at the man at whom he’d been practically hissing, the rest of his sentence got tangled on his tongue. Even as the man’s eyes narrowed further, the deep blue of those eyes seemed to glow as vividly as the winged logo—seriously, had they used glow-in-the-dark paint for that thing? The brightness of his eyes was sharply contrasted by dark rings under them that spoke of exhaustion, especially when added to the disheveled dark hair falling across his brow and the five-o’clock shadow that covered a tight and bunched jaw.

“F—fuh?” the man repeated, rolling a hand in the air impatiently, after a moment of silence in which they stood staring at each other.

“Fine,” Dean finally managed. “It’ll be fine. That side of the house isn’t too muddy. It’s on a rise, so the rain ran off and didn’t collect. And I don’t even care about the yard. I just need…they really didn’t tell you anything?” 

“He rarely does,” said the man, sighing and rolling his eyes. “I believe he thinks it’s funnier this way, so long as it’s not about a serious matter that might hurt either the company or the client.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, deciding he could explore whatever that was about after more important things were handled. “This happens to be a serious matter. I told the guy on the phone that I needed this to be discreet. A giant white van with glowing wings is the opposite of discreet. That’s why I wanted you to pull around back.”

The man studied Dean’s face. “You want my van hidden, so nobody knows I’m here,” he said. “For an appointment in the middle of the night. And it’s a ‘serious matter.’” The actual air quotes the man placed around the phrase were unexpectedly awkward, and Dean might have snickered if the guy hadn’t looked so irritated about the situation.

“Dude, you were the one to call it that first,” he argued in his own defense. At the scowl that started to form in reaction, Dean held up his palms placatingly. “But I swear, it’s nothing sketchy. I already told the guy who booked the appointment all about it, and he said you guys could work with it.”

“So you’re not some sort of deranged serial killer, setting up elaborate schemes to lure in service professionals for your victims?” Dean’s jaw dropped, but before he could protest, the man shrugged and turned back toward the van. “Not that you’d say so, I suppose. But I guess I’ll find out eventually, one way or another.”

Dean spluttered, utterly flummoxed by how the situation was turning out. “I’m not a damn killer!” he shouted after him, belatedly remembering that he was supposed to be avoiding attention from his neighbors, not attracting it.

“Good to know,” the guy called back, equally loudly. “Because you’d make a terrible one. Way too conspicuous.” He closed the van door and started the engine. Just before the headlights lit the road and temporarily blinded Dean, he was sure he glimpsed white teeth bared in a grin.

By the time the van had been relocated out of view from the street, Dean had managed to regain the better part of his composure. He had no idea why this always seemed to happen, yet there they were; with women, he could keep up a steady, flirty banter through an entire night of drinking and dancing, both vertical and horizontal varieties. Trade the boobs for a Y-chromosome, however, and suddenly Dean turned into a stammering, blushing idiot, every damn time. _Get it together, Winchester,_ he scolded himself. _Now is not the time. Doesn’t matter how hot the dude looks in a work coverall; this is real life, not porn._

Thus resolved, Dean stood on the patio by the back door, waiting as the contractor approached. “Okay, can we start over and try this again?” he asked, holding out a hand. “I’m Dean Winchester, the homeowner.”

“Castiel Novak.” Castiel shook his hand firmly, calloused grip warm and rough against Dean’s palm. He continued on, breaking eye contact as he peered through the shadowed doorway as he talked. “In the interest of full clarity, perhaps you should reiterate exactly what service you wished us to provide. I only ask because Gabriel—the owner of the company—obviously neglected to provide at least one bit of information when he gave me the work order and sent me here. I was told this was to be a full home inspection.”

Dean nodded, feeling more grounded now. It helped matters that the lights from the street were muted from here, lessening the distraction of that piercing gaze. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, belatedly realizing with embarrassment that the handshake had gone on much longer than was appropriate, and he quickly released Castiel’s hand. Thankfully, he seemed distracted enough by the house to not notice Dean’s awkward behavior. “As detailed as you can get, seriously. I don’t want anything skipped or brushed over.”

Castiel’s glance back at him was thoroughly unimpressed. “Naturally,” he said dryly, his tone indicating that his assessment of Dean’s intelligence wasn’t improving in the wake of their first misunderstanding. “That is what ‘full’ means, after all.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Dean muttered to himself, shaking his head at the memory of his first inspection fiasco, then waving a dismissive hand when Castiel made a questioning sound. “Good, then. We’re on the same page,” he said more clearly. “This door leads to the kitchen, and we can start there.”

Inside, Castiel blinked in mild surprise. “Have you not had the electricity turned on yet?” he asked, staring at the number of battery-operated lamps Dean had placed along counters and in corners to light the room. “That will make inspecting the wiring a challenge.”

“No, it’s on, but I already know there are issues with that, so I want to use it as little as possible in the meantime,” Dean explained. Unfortunately, a day full of lectures and one-on-ones with students had kept him busy until after sundown again, so he hadn’t had the chance to do much hunting for the elusive breaker box yet. A quick survey of the exterior hadn’t shown anything, which was mystifying. “But that’s actually the problem I’m least concerned about, all things considered.”

“You’re unconcerned about electrical fires.” Castiel’s gravelly voice was deadpan, his blue eyes unblinking. 

_Jesus, here we go again._ “No, I’m not unconcerned. I just understand that part. I’m an engineering professor,” Dean explained, smiling confidently. 

“I see,” Castiel said, lifting the clipboard in his hand and glancing over it. Dean felt his smile slip a bit; he hadn’t expected the guy to be awed or anything, but most people seemed to think it was a little impressive. 

“Anyway, I don’t wanna tell you how to do your job. You need to flick on the lights, go for it. I’m just playing it extra safe. The main reason I really called was the foundation—found a big crack in one part of the floor, and I’m nervous,” Dean said. Again, he was unable to keep himself from glancing over his shoulder at the office when he spoke, and worry had him biting his lip. “And since I was calling anyway, I figured the best thing was to have you go over all the rest of it and pick up on anything else I might have missed.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. His eyes flitted about the room, examining everything critically as he considered. “Ordinarily, I’d start with the home’s exterior, but as it’s too dark to see much of anything, we’ll have to leave that for later. In the meantime, I can look at the structure from inside the house.”

It would be rude to ogle a service worker just trying to do his job, even if the act of doing that job had him on hands and knees, displaying an _extremely_ ogle-able rear view. Dean was obviously well aware of that, and his only excuse for blatantly doing it anyway was that it had been a _really_ long and miserable couple of days. _Time like this, it’s practically a crime not to appreciate the silver linings,_ he consoled himself as he shifted slightly to one side so he could get a better view. 

Of the cracked floor. Not of the perfect ass on the man examining it. Of course.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Castiel spat with profound disgust, his whole face screwed into a grimace as he stood back up and dusted his hands against his thighs. All thoughts of asses vanished from Dean’s head as the blood suddenly ran cold through his veins.

“Is it…it’s that bad?” he gulped. _Well, I guess that’s that. God, it’s going to cost more to fix than I paid in the first place. Probably end up being cheaper to just bulldoze it._

“The crack? No, that’s actually not a big deal. It’s old—probably happened in the first few years, when the house settled, and it doesn’t look like it’s moved since then. The larger problem is that you’ll be dead of ammonia poisoning within minutes of closing that window.” Castiel tipped his head in the direction of the window in question, which Dean had cracked to encourage the air to circulate.

“Oh,” Dean said, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Yeah, I think the previous owners must have had a cat or something.”

“ _A_ cat? As in singular? You think one cat did _this?_ ” Castiel said, waving an arm toward the floor. His nose was still wrinkled, for which Dean could honestly not blame him. “No healthy creature could make that sort of a stench, Dean. Not alone. A clowder, maybe, if they worked at it.”

Mouth open to argue, Dean paused and closed it, thoughts temporarily derailed. “Clowder?” he finally repeated.

“Yes, a clowder. A group of cats is called a clowder, though that’s hardly the point,” Castiel said, rolling his eyes. Dean thought it rather was at least _a_ point, but he let it pass as Castiel railroaded on. “The cat urine saturated the carpet, which I can see from the glue layer that you’ve removed, but it was left to permeate the concrete subfloor. There may be _feet_ of piss-scented concrete under here.”

“So we’re back to having to replace the whole slab,” Dean said, slumping. At least it wouldn’t be the entire house, but that would still be a greater job than he could even pretend to do on his own.

“What? No,” Castiel said. “No, it’s just going to be a royal pain. There’s a variety of deep cleaners you can try, and you might end up using them all. It might not take the entire smell away, but if you can dampen it enough, then sealing the concrete should take you the rest of the way.” He pivoted to head out of the room, turning his head to look back over his shoulder as he walked. “But if that’s the worst of your concerns, you should be relieved.”

It took fewer than twenty minutes for both men to realize that the flippant comment was a prime example of famous last words.

“You got worried over a little crack in the floor, but you didn’t notice this?” Castiel said, eyeing the scattering of black spots blooming like flowers high on the wall behind the utility sink in the basement. “You did say that you are the homeowner, correct? Did you by chance mean ‘prospective homeowner’? Is this a pre-sale inspection? I did see the realtor’s sign in the yard, and it said ‘sold,’ but surely…”

“Yeah, no. I bought this place,” Dean admitted miserably. “In my defense, it was a really low asking price.”

“Well, I can’t imagine why,” Castiel sighed, scraping away at a bit of the mold with his pencil tip.

Dean scowled, dropping down to sit on the bottom step (and ignoring the ominous creak that had Castiel slowly lifting his eyes toward the top of the wooden stairs). “Aren’t you supposed to be a service professional? Is this the way you talk to all your clients?” No matter how hot the guy might be, Dean was starting to be seriously put off by the feeling that he was being judged personally.

To his surprise, Castiel let out a long exhale and dropped his eyes, looking sheepish. “No, not really,” he replied. He started to lean back against the wall, but seemed to recall the mold at the last minute. Instead, he jammed his hands into his pockets and rested his shoulder against the edge of the stairs. “It’s been a…painfully long day. Apparently, I’ve done something to warrant my brother’s irritation, or else he’s just bored and is testing how far he can push before I explode. He’s been sending me on the worst appointments all day—anything muddy, filthy, or disgusting had my name on it.”

“Your brother?” Dean questioned.

Castiel nodded. “You spoke to him when you called. Gabriel inherited the company when our father retired to Florida. He’s managed it well, but in balance, his sense of mischief has to have an outlet. Currently, it’s me.”

“That sucks.” Dean’s sympathy was genuine, even though he knew how much grief he’d given his own brother over the years with just as little provocation. 

“I’m inured to it at this point, for the most part,” Castiel said with a shrug, “but I was supposed to go home at six, and I had spent most of the day clinging to that thought. Ideally right now, I’d be on my couch in my boxers, a cold beer in hand, stomach full of leftover curry, and catching up on the episodes of ‘Doctor Sexy’ I’ve had waiting on my DVR. But, _shockingly,_ your inspection appointment somehow slipped off the schedule, leaving nothing to be done but to either cancel at the last minute, or else…” He spread his arms to his sides in a gesture of haggard defeat. 

“Christ, I’d have cancelled on me,” Dean said, horrified. “Let your brother spin in the wind if he wants to mess with you that hard. Why do you even still work for a douche like that?”

“Because that douche is family,” Castiel groaned, leveraging himself away from the staircase with visible effort. “But I shouldn’t be taking it out on you, and for that, I am sincerely sorry. I am sincerely sorry, as well, for having to tell you this, but you have been cheated badly on this house sale. I say that confidently even without knowing what you paid for it.”

“Maybe,” Dean said. Then he ran a hand over his face and laughed without humor. “Probably. And we’re not even done yet, are we?” Castiel started up the stairs without saying anything, and Dean followed behind.

“The main issue with mold actually isn’t the mold itself, most of the time,” Castiel said as he returned to the kitchen. He frowned at the sink, thinking. “You kill the mold, bleach it to death…it’s not that complicated. The more pressing issue is to find and repair the source of the moisture. Your mold pattern looks more like a plumbing problem than a groundwater one, so you’ll need to find the leak.” Dean nodded in understanding, and he stood back and watched as Castiel pulled a flashlight from his pocket and knelt to begin studying the pipes under the sink.

A moment later, Dean heard a noise of derision echoing up from the depths of the cabinet. “Did you find it?” he asked, feeling hopeful.

“Not the leak,” came Castiel’s muffled voice. “Just some pretty good clues that whoever lived here was a do-it-yourselfer of the worst kind. I suspect they secured this pipe joint with Elmer’s school glue. Also, there’s no trap, so I’m sure the sewer gas makes for a lovely aroma. But,” he finished as he crawled backward out of the cabinet, “there are signs of the leak running down the back wall. Definitely a pipe, probably from the upstairs bathroom.”

“Shit,” Dean said. “That’s the newer one; they added it maybe six or seven years ago. I was kind of hoping it would at least be in better shape than the older parts of the place.” The upstairs bathroom was hideous, with peeling floral wallpaper and peach linoleum on the floor, but those things were just cosmetic. 

Castiel smiled sympathetically. It was the first true smile Dean had seen on Castiel’s face, other than a few smirks and the satisfied grin he’d glimpsed outside in the van, and it stirred something in his chest as his mouth went dry. To cover his natural reaction, Dean coughed and cleared his throat, turning away. Of all the inappropriate times to be thinking with his dick, this had to be one of the worst. Dean summoned memories of urine-soaked carpet under his fingers, tamping down his butterflies, and headed for the stairs.

Both men groaned when they stepped into the bathroom doorway. The room was too cramped for them both to occupy it, so Castiel was the one to enter, crouching down to run a hand along the box of drywall that had been built to hide almost all of the sink plumbing. “Did they just assume nobody would ever have to look at any of the pipes again once they were installed?” he grumbled. “Not even a service access panel.”

“I’ve got a heavy lug wrench in my trunk,” Dean offered. Castiel arched an eyebrow at him, and damned if those tamped-down butterflies didn’t come swarming right back, now with friends. “I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to be tearing that out, anyway, so what do I care if you want to punch a hole in it now?”

“A utility knife would be more efficient, and I have plenty of tools in the van,” Castiel said, the corners of his lips twitching, and Dean felt like slapping himself. This was the man’s _job._ Of course he’d be prepared to work without resorting to using random objects to break things. Castiel chuckled, causing Dean to flush even more deeply, before adding, “Your way does sound more cathartic, though, I must admit.”

Pushing through the weird whiplash, Dean found himself laughing as well. “So, you want me to go get it for you?” he said, trying to regain his composure as he took a step back into the hallway beyond the door.

“Actually, I think you should go get it for you,” Castiel replied. He ran an appraising eye over Dean, up and down. “You look like you need to work out some of your frustrations, and who am I to stand in the way of that? I’ve got some protective goggles in the front seat of the van. Go ahead and grab those, too.” With that, he dropped the rest of the way to the floor and appeared to make himself comfortable with his back braced against the side of the bathtub. 

Blinking, and not really having any response to offer, Dean headed downstairs. The image of Castiel propping his head tiredly on a bent arm along the edge of the tub, with his flexed muscles straining the sleeve of his tee shirt just a bit, was definitely something he needed to clear from his mind before he returned, or squatting to hack at the drywall wasn’t even going to be an option for him. 

“So I’m wondering,” Castiel said, looking thoroughly relaxed and in much better spirits than before. He toyed with the label of his cold bottle of water (“No drinking when I’m on the job,” he’d replied to Dean’s offer of a beer, though not without looking extremely tempted), then drew little rings on the fiberglass tub with the condensation. “For everything I’ve mentioned so far, your questions have all been about how difficult the repairs will be, how long they might take. You haven’t asked one question about the cost to do it. That’s unusual, in my experience.”

Dean was also feeling a lot better, if more tired. Castiel had been right about the whole catharsis thing; with bits of drywall scattered around him on the floor and all over his clothes, and some pleasant soreness in his forearms, he felt like he’d managed to get his little bit of payback on this mess. He brushed some of the dust from his thighs, grateful that Castiel had made the practical suggestion of removing his dress shirt before diving into the job. “Well, I prepared for having to do a bunch of repairs,” he explained, lifting the goggles from his face to rest on top of his head. “Overprepared, I thought. No spouse or kids, simple tastes…a lot of my paycheck was going into a ‘someday’ fund, and I guess I figured that the ‘someday’ might as well be now, while I can enjoy it. I mean, granted, I thought I was going to be spinning out these renovations gradually, one project at a time.”

“Not diving in headfirst, having to make it habitable before you can even think about comfortable?” Castiel suggested, and chuckled when Dean nodded. “Makes sense. You definitely would still have been in way over your head, of course, but it would have taken much longer to reach the panic stage.” 

“God, why does everyone think that?” Dean couldn’t help feeling a stab of hurt. Even his coworkers had given each other sidelong glances when he’d told them what he planned. The fact that he’d had to call in a professional within a day of closing on the place was irrelevant; none of them could have known how badly he would be screwed by the first goddamn inspector, dumping a whole lot more shit into his lap than anyone could have anticipated.

Castiel held up his palms in a gesture of skeptical surrender. “I’m sure you’re a capable guy, Dean. I’m just saying. Everyone watches ‘This Old House’ or whatever sanitized version of reality they’re selling on television, and they think it’s a matter of renting a floor sander and knocking down a few walls—which are never, ever load-bearing, of course—to make some sort of ‘open floor plan’ paradise out of the run-down shack that they alone could see as the true diamond in the rough it always was.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I’m not saying that’s what you did, but honestly, I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Home improvement is rarely, if ever, a one-man job.”

Dean grimaced, not wanting to admit how much of what Castiel had said came close to the truth. Instead, he turned back to the sink, using the flattened prying tip to dig away the edges of the hole he’d made. “There, that should be good enough.” He grabbed a work light from the corner of the bathroom and stuck it on the floor inside the cabinet. “Ready to try door number two? Three, if we count the basement itself.”

Castiel heaved himself forward onto his knees, and Dean was relieved by their tacit agreement to let the question drop. “So between the concrete cleaning, the pipe leaks and mold infestation, and, not insignificantly, the roof replacement I could see you’ll be needing within the year, simply based on the cursory glimpse I got with my headlights, are you still planning to go it alone?” Placing his penlight between his teeth, Castiel carefully maneuvered his upper body into the hole, disappearing to the waist.

Without conscious direction, Dean’s eyes lifted slowly to the ceiling above him. “The roof?” he mumbled. It had looked fine to him, with no curling or missing shingles or any of the danger signs he’d read that he was supposed to check.

“Mm-hmm,” Castiel hummed in confirmation. “The dormers along the sides of the house? There’s no step flashing along the edges. Depending on how long ago they did the roof, the damage may not be visible yet, but it’ll be there. Hah, found you, you little bastard.”

For some reason, Dean felt a little less victorious at their success than he might have. “Is it bad?” he asked.

Muffled laughter came from under the sink. “Define bad,” Castiel said. “It’s a leak, all right. I’m just amazed it actually ever functioned in the first place. There are one, two…I see at least four different elbow pipe fittings here, stuck together with cheap adhesive and what I’m thinking is fishing line, curving around all over the place like they didn’t have anything other than elbows, so they just made do with what they had. God, I need a camera.” He came backing out of the hole, pink cheeked with amusement and exertion. Dean felt weak in the knees for myriad reasons.

“So…is that…an easy fix?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer. Castiel started laughing harder, though Dean couldn’t tell whether it was at the situation or just at him, personally. “Fuck,” he said, too defeated to protest. Making a fist, he thumped the wall over the sink, then did it again, harder, because it felt appropriate. With the second thump, the medicine cabinet on the wall shifted a fraction, and Dean had a frightening vision of it falling with a crash into the sink, sending shards of broken mirror everywhere. Not that his luck could get much worse, but he made a grab to catch it anyway. Castiel, seeing the movement, hastily scooted backward out of the potential danger zone.

It didn’t fall, though. When the cabinet remained hanging in place, tilted slightly away from the wall, Dean cautiously prodded at it with one hand, still ready to catch it if necessary. Under his hand, one side of the cabinet seemed to pull further away from the wall. “The hell?” he said. He looked back at Castiel, who seemed equally mystified. Using his other hand to hold the cabinet in place, Dean gently pulled the loose side toward him, and the damned thing pivoted away from the wall, just like…

“Is the cabinet…a cabinet?” Castiel asked. Dean was just as stunned, seeing the entire cabinet open away from a recessed hole in the wall, pivoting on hinges that had been concealed behind the frame. “If that’s for drugs, I’ll get Contractor Bingo. You wouldn’t believe the things we find. Hannah, our electrician, has a knack for finding sex toys.”

“It’s not drugs,” Dean said, almost wishing it was. Pulling the cabinet open wide, he stared dumbfounded at the metal door hidden beneath. Castiel sucked in a sharp gasp. “It’s the fucking breaker box. I knew there was a second one, but…”

“They put the electrical breaker in a goddamn _wet wall?”_ Castiel sounded stunned. “Were they trying to electrocute themselves? I can’t even…the code violations…I have no words, here.”

“I might have a few,” said Dean, unable to pull his eyes away from the horror. _I might be delusional, but I’m not actually suicidal._ “Any chance I can book you guys for some renovation work in the immediate future?”

Castiel was out in his van, writing up the report on Dean’s abomination of a house, and Dean was trying hard to get air into his lungs. On one hand, he was thankful with every fiber of his being that he hadn’t gone messing around trying to map the mystery circuits without knowing better. He imagined Sam calling his phone, over and over, and growing more frustrated, while Dean lay dead on the floor, smoke rising from his body. At least he wouldn’t have had to hear the “I told you so.”

On the other hand, he didn’t understand how he was going to explain this to anyone. He had been an _idiot._ How could he have messed up so badly? 

As if on cue, Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. _Of course,_ he thought, seeing his brother’s name on the display. _Well, here goes nothing._ “Hey, Sammy,” he said as he answered, trying to mask the strain in his voice.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam replied. “Just calling to see how day one in the new place is going. You sound beat, man. Tougher work than you thought?” There was gentle teasing in Sam’s tone, and Dean winced, closing his eyes and tipping his head back toward the ceiling.

“Yeah, that’s…that’s one way to describe it,” he said. The words were right there, taunting him. _Sam, I fucked up. Sam, you were right, and I should never have bought this place. I made a mistake, Sammy, and there’s no way I’m digging myself out of it on my own. I need help, I need help, I need help._ Years of stubborn pride seemed to clog his throat, refusing to let the truth come pouring out. Dean gritted his teeth, pushing his free hand into his hair and gripping it, yanking hard enough to make his scalp sting.

“You know, it’s not too late,” Sam was saying, sounding so damn patient ( _condescending,_ the wicked little voice in his brain, the one that loved to believe the worst, insisted) that Dean felt like screaming. “Nobody would judge you if you needed—”

Just at that moment, Castiel came back through the door, reading from the paperwork on his clipboard as he walked. “So it looks like we’ve actually got a pretty full work schedule over the next month, but we can probably put together a skeleton crew of workers to handle it. Most of the work won’t really be heavy lifting, depending on how much of the wall we need to replace, so a handful of people should be able to manage it. Gabe was moved to tears over the breaker box weirdness, so I think that wound up working in your favor, as far as booking speed.” He bent over the counter, scribbling more on the page without so much as glancing up.

On the other end of Dean’s phone call, Sam’s voice had gone quiet while Castiel had been speaking. In the pause that followed, Sam cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his words were heavy with mischief. “Dean,” he practically purred. “Is there someone else in your house right now?”

_Shit_. “So what if there is?” Dean said, feeling cornered. This was the worst. Being caught before he even had the chance to confess was a double whammy of humiliation. 

“And by any chance would that person be, say, a home repairman? Did I hear something about ‘heavy lifting’? You wouldn’t happen to have hired somebody on the sly, thinking you could pass off their work as your own, just so you wouldn’t have to admit somebody else was right, would you?” Sam sounded almost indecently thrilled by the turn of events.

“No!” Dean scoffed, much too loudly. Castiel looked up, regarding him curiously; Dean forced a smile, which he knew looked ridiculously fake; Castiel rolled his eyes and went back to his paperwork. “No, that’s…of course not! That’s…that’s just…my…boyfriend.”

In the silence that followed, even the evil internal voice seemed stunned into stillness. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw, as if moving in slow motion, Castiel slowly lift his head and turn to stare at Dean with what looked like a combination of alarm, disbelief, and indignation flickering over his face. Dean couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes fully, turning his back instead and covering his own face with one hand.

“Uh,” Sam stammered. “Um, that’s…unexpected. You never said anything…I mean, not that you _had_ to. It’s not like you owe me, or anyone, any explanation or anything like that. But you know I’d never judge! Dean, you’re my big brother, and I—”

“Oh, my God,” Dean groaned into his palm. _What the hell have I done?_

“I just want to say that I am completely honored that you told me. Really. This is a big deal, and I’m so proud of you. And you’re in a relationship, too! God, all those times I told you how worried I was about you being lonely, you had—”

“Sam, please, just stop,” Dean begged. “God, this is exactly what I didn’t want. It’s not a big deal! You’re making it a _thing._ Why does it have to be a thing?” Thoughts of the house and Castiel faded into the background in the face of this new bit of specialness. Dean wasn’t even lying now; this, right here, was the exact reason why he’d never come out with his sexuality to Sam in the first place. It was mortifying.

Sounding apologetic, Sam sighed. “You’re right. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Nothing has changed for me, and I promise I won’t look at you any differently. I’m just happy for you. And I really want to meet this guy! What’s his name?”

“Uh,” Dean said, stuck for words. “Can we, y’know, maybe have this conversation another time? I’m sort of wiped, and it’s been a really, really long, hard day. You know, the house and everything.”

“God, of course!” Sam said hastily. “We should talk about this face to face, anyway, not over the phone. Maybe we can get lunch tomorrow or the next day? My treat, anywhere you like.”

“Yeah, that’s good. That’ll be fine,” Dean said, desperate to end this phone call. “I gotta go now. The, um, carpet. It’s…leaking.” He had no idea what nonsense was coming out of his mouth anymore, and he didn’t care. 

Sam sounded baffled, but he was apparently willing to chalk it up to the stressful events of the day, so he let Dean go with nothing more than a few extra declarations of his love and support before hanging up. In the wake of the call, Dean stood stiffly, tapping his phone against the heel of the opposite hand and procrastinating against the moment when he’d have to turn and face the music. A moment later, a dry cough sounded behind him, and he flinched before reluctantly turning around.

“So,” Castiel said, leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest and a wry expression twisting his lips. “Is there something we need to discuss, sweetie?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention here that a good chunk of Dean's travails with his new house have been "ripped from the headlines," except that by "headlines," I mean personal experience. Good God, the house we had before this one. I've never seen a look on an electrician's face like the one I saw when ours discovered that plugging in his power tools would cause our ceiling fan to start turning lazily. I could write a book on that place. Instead, I've written this, and it was extremely cathartic.


	3. Demolition: If You Give a Boy a Hammer

“Well, I don’t see any obvious bruising, and you’re not limping or babying any body parts I can see, so if the guy did punch you, at least he did it someplace nobody would see,” drawled Meg, leaning back languidly in her office chair and idly spinning from side to side. She twisted one of her dark curls around one finger as she rocked. “That’s consideration. You get that from your better class of contractors.”

From his perch on top of the low filing cabinet on the other side of the tiny grad student office, Dean glared. “You know, I’m still not sure that I really needed a graduate assistant in the first place.”

“Hey, if you say so. I hear Dr. Roche might need some extra hands over in Fluid Mechanics, since they dumped Dr. Kline’s undergrad sections on him while she’s on maternity leave. If you think you can handle all this by yourself, I’ll just toddle off to his office and tell him you signed off.” She shoved a precariously leaning stack of assignments she’d been grading in his direction and started to stand up.

“Sit down,” Dean groaned, bluff successfully called. Meg smirked knowingly, flashing her dimples, and resettled herself, fully aware that his complaints were usually toothless. She was probably one of the most capable graduate students in the department, and even if she relished giving him hell on a daily basis, her snark was usually on the money, as well as frequently insightful. She also provided an extremely effective barrier between him and the student drama that was rife through most of the building. “Why am I even telling you about any of this, though?”

“Because I can see your calendar, and I know your schedule, and there’s no way you could have kept it from me even if you’d wanted to,” she replied without hesitation, and he nodded ruefully in concession. “Anyway, more deets. If he didn’t hit you, what did he do? Cancel the job?”

“No, that’s the weird part,” Dean said. “He decided he was in.”

_“What?” Dean said, probably for the fifth time. Among all of the weird twists and turns the evening had taken up to this point, this might be the weirdest of them all._

_“I’m just saying,” Castiel said, casually rubbing at a few stray smudges of plaster around his cuticles. “I know what it’s like to have a brother who thinks that your business is his business. Even when it’s well-meaning, it’s still irritating. Although it might be a little extreme to lie about your sexuality to get him off your back, I can empathize.”_

_“Actually, that part wasn’t even a lie,” Dean muttered. Hey, if he had to look like a compulsive liar and complete weirdo along with being incompetent, he might as well go all in and lay all his cards on the table. “He just didn’t know. Before now, I mean.”_

_“You just came out to your brother as gay so you wouldn’t have to tell him you’d hired a contractor to help with the house?” Head tipped to the side and brow furrowed, Castiel was peering at him with a strange sort of fascination._

_“Bi, actually,” Dean said, blushing and looking at the floor to escape the stare. He scratched at the back of his neck in discomfort. “Not that it matters right now, I guess, but he’ll drag it all out of me later. You don’t have to worry, though. I’ll tell him the truth. Sorry I panicked and made it sound like you were…you know.”_

_Instead of responding immediately, Castiel stood gazing at Dean for a few moments without speaking. Dean had no clue what he was thinking, and he was afraid to ask. Then, finally, Castiel shook his head. “What if you didn’t?” he said._

_“What?”_

_“Look, you just came out, for real, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal. And from the sound of things, he took it extremely well. For my part, I don’t really care what your brother might think about me, so if it would make things easier until the dust settles a little around the coming out, you shouldn’t feel compelled to rush right over and clear any air with him purely on my account.”_

_Dean was utterly lost. Of all the reactions he might have predicted, this one was so far out of left field that he had to wonder whether he’d accidentally clocked himself with the wrench and was actually unconscious and dreaming on the bathroom floor. “But…” he said helplessly._

_“Now, the lie about hiring our company,” Castiel said, then shrugged. “Eh. That’s between you and him. Again, I don’t really care what he thinks, since he’s not the one signing the checks. If you feel like you need to tell him the truth about us, then have at it, but, as far as I’m concerned, I probably wouldn’t.”_

_“You wouldn’t,” Dean repeated, trying to keep up and failing._

_“If you do, then it’ll throw a pallor of doubt over everything else you’ve said. He’ll definitely question your boyfriend story, and he might even choose to doubt your word about being attracted to men in the first place if he thinks you were just trying to shut him up. Of course, I don’t know you well enough to say you wouldn’t, and some people go to extreme lengths when desperate. Do you relish the idea of trying to prove your sexuality to your brother? Offering up names and dates of romantic and sexual encounters to try to make your case?” Castiel was now smiling, apparently amused by the picture. Dean, however, couldn’t repress a shudder._

_“Anyway, handle it however you like,” Castiel finished. “It’s not my business. This, however, is. I need your signature here, agreeing that I showed you all these areas of concern during my inspection.”_

“And that was that,” Meg said, disbelieving. “He just shrugged it off, no further questions?”

“Just like that,” Dean said, still having trouble grasping it himself. “We took care of the paperwork, and we set up an appointment to start work this Thursday.”

“And Sam?”

“Lunch with him tomorrow,” Dean said. “We’re going to Minsky’s, and, yes, I will bring you back your breadsticks, so you don’t even need to ask.”

“I’ve trained you so well,” she said cheerfully. “But what I was asking was what you planned to tell him. Gonna come clean or double down?”

Dean fidgeted, tapping at the cabinet with his fingers. “Haven’t decided. What do you think I should do?” He’d played out both scenarios in his head, trying to guess Sam’s reactions to either discussion, and neither sounded particularly pleasant. At least Minsky’s was usually loud enough to drown out the worst of any shouting.

Meg laughed lightly. “Oh, you know me, Professor. I know better than to get involved in my boss’s personal life.” At Dean’s incredulous noise and accusingly pointed finger, she just laughed harder and harder, until finally Mrs. Tran left her desk in the Dean’s office and stomped down the hall to see what the noise was all about.

“I’m just so _happy_ for you,” Sam said, grinning so widely it was starting to unnerve Dean. To avoid having to come up with a reply, he bit a large chunk out of a breadstick and took his time chewing. 

Minksy’s was Dean’s usual choice for these brother-bonding lunches. It was close to campus, lively but not too packed for comfort, and served a meat-heavy specialty pizza that was probably responsible for at least half the bad cholesterol running through Dean’s veins. When it was Sam’s turn to choose, he usually opted for one of the trendy little delis and cafes that littered the neighborhood around the building that housed his therapy practice. Not that Dean had any particular distaste for herbal teas or quinoa salads, but the principle of the thing demanded that he fake some, just as he was sure that only half of Sam’s current grimace was genuine. He’d seen the pizza boxes in Sam’s trash on more than one occasion.

“Told you not to make a big deal out of it,” Dean said, making sure to say it around a mouthful of bread just to see if he could get Sam to look even more pained. _Score._ “Just didn’t feel like it needed to be discussed. Still doesn’t, okay?” He hadn’t managed to make up his mind over what he wanted to do about this conversation, even as they were sitting down, and so he’d fallen into the trusty third option: deflection.

“Dean, don’t you remember when I started dating Eileen? You gave me such shit for not telling you about her until things were serious. If I remember correctly, you accused me of compartmentalizing?”

“Pretty sure I didn’t,” said Dean, rolling his eyes. “Pretty sure I’ve never used that word in casual conversation, since I’m not the one who speaks shrink.”

Sam kept going, as though Dean hadn’t cut in at all. “You told me that keeping our relationship private made it look like I was ashamed of either her or you. I still say you’re wrong, and that it’s a perfectly healthy choice to nurture a young relationship without exposing it to the opinions and critiques of people outside of it, but the point is that you’re doing the same thing you told me not to do. You’re putting up walls, Dean.”

Dean grabbed for another breadstick. The basket was empty, sadly. He compromised with a series of enormous gulps from his water glass.

Sam had his “feelings are important” face on, soft eyes trained on Dean’s. “You don’t owe me anything, but…I’d really like it if you felt comfortable enough to talk about it. I don’t even know your boyfriend’s name.”

Dean sighed heavily. “It’s Cas—um, Cas,” he said, realizing at the last minute that although Castiel had said he was fine with Dean letting the original lie go uncorrected, he might not feel as blasé about Dean patterning a whole backstory on him.

“Okay, so, Cas,” Sam said encouragingly. “And where did you two meet? I haven’t heard you mention anyone named Cas before.” 

Crap. Dean hadn’t planned this out at all. “Uh, we met at…” Glancing around the room as subtly as he could manage, he spied a gym bag on the floor by another diner’s foot. “...the gym. Where he works. He’s, like, a personal trainer.” It was probably the least convincingly delivered tale he could have told, but at least it sounded somewhat feasible.

At least, Dean had thought so. Sam’s choked laugh said something different. Before Dean could worry that he’d been somehow caught, Sam lifted a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just…you, in a gym? And winding up going out with a trainer? That’s—”

“That’s what?” Dean interrupted, a little affronted at what Sam was insinuating. 

“I mean, wow,” Sam said, laughing again. “I guess I really was underestimating you. You’re a gym person now?”

“Hey, I exercise,” Dean said. This was getting hurtful. “Why would you laugh at that? Hey!” Sam was trying to look sorry, but snickers kept sneaking out from between his clamped jaws whenever he looked Dean in the face.

“I’m just—” he snorted, then closed his eyes. “I’m remembering the last time I managed to get you to go on a run with me. You made it maybe a mile before you stopped and totally went off about how _stupid_ running was, and how if we were meant to run, we wouldn’t have evolved brains that let us design engines and the wheel so we wouldn’t have to. You wanted to call an Uber so you wouldn’t have to run the mile back to the house!”

“Shut up.” He still stood by that argument. “And who said anything about running? Weights are a thing, Sam.” A thing about which he had only passing familiarity, but he didn’t need to give details about his imaginary workout session with his imaginary boyfriend. 

“No, you’re right. I know. I’m just trying to picture how you and someone whose whole livelihood revolves around fitness managed to find each other. Opposites actually do attract sometimes, I suppose.”

Dean glared at Sam for a few more seconds, then looked down at his plate, with its oily sheen of grease shimmering up at him. _Great,_ he thought. _Now I’m feeling insecure in a relationship that only exists in my head. Well, and in Sam’s. The lows just keep getting lower, don’t they?_

“Hey, do you like pizza?” 

At Dean’s seemingly random question, Castiel poked his head out of the bathroom door, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Yes, I am a human being living on planet Earth,” he said. “Why, are you ordering some? I’ve already eaten dinner, but don’t feel awkward about ordering just for yourself. I’m here to work, not as a guest you have to host.”

“Nah, I’m not hungry. Just curious.” Castiel gave him a look that said he was behaving strangely again, but he didn’t ask for clarification before going back to work demolishing the wall around the plumbing. The noise was rather incredible, echoing around the tiny room and making the entire upper floor vibrate every now and again, and Dean left him to it, more than occupied in the bedroom across the hall, where he was theoretically engaged in ripping up more carpet. 

He definitely was _not_ examining himself in profile, from his reflection in the bedroom window, poking at his gut and wondering whether a jog in the morning a couple times a week would actually kill him or just make him wish he was dead.

Grumbling in irritation about little brothers and their ability to mess with one’s head, Dean bent to his work again. _Rip, rip, rrrrrrrrrip._ Thank god, the floor in this room was wood, not concrete. Not even unfinished subfloor—real, honest to God, hardwood. It was about time for a pleasant surprise, he’d figured, and he was definitely feeling more positive about this whole venture now that there was at least a plan in place. The strong odors of the cleaning solutions Castiel had sprayed and sponged over the basement wall and the concrete in the office were wafting through the entire house, and it smelled like progress.

“So how come you drew the short straw on this?” Dean called out when it sounded like the demolition noise had hit a lull. “Kind of figured the actual hands-on fixing would go to someone lower on the totem pole.”

“That would imply that there’s a pole to climb,” Castiel called back. “We’re a smaller operation than that. Most of us can do most things, even if we’ve specialized in one trade area or another. For general renovation projects like this, the job falls to whomever is available. Gad, our master plumber, will hopefully be available to do the actual replumbing of this water line.”

“You think it’ll be that complicated?”

“No,” Castiel said, mischief in his voice. “I just think he’d never forgive me if I didn’t let him get a first-hand look at this.”

Dean stuck his tongue out, even though it wouldn’t be visible. “Very funny. At least somebody’s enjoying this.”

“Just think of the stories you’ll have when it’s all over,” Castiel said, the noises of thumping and banging resuming. Dean shook his head, thinking it would be a long, long time before he’d be able to find much humor in any of this.

When the last of the carpet finally lay in a pile of remnants stacked in the hallway, Dean surveyed the floor critically. Most of it looked to be in fairly decent condition and wouldn’t take much work, he thought, to sand and polish into shape. One corner, on the other hand, had a few rather large cracks in the boards, along with a rough hole about the size of a half dollar. “Hey, Cas,” he called over his shoulder. “How hard is it to replace a couple of floorboards?”

“Not too bad, though the hard part will be finding wood to match the old wood that won’t stick out like a sore thumb.” Castiel’s voice, coming from directly behind Dean, startled him. Dean jumped, staggering forward a step in his surprise before he grabbed the doorframe. Castiel stood there without a blink, paying no mind to Dean’s reaction. “Did you call me ‘Cas’?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, wasn’t even thinking. I just tend to do the nickname thing for everybody.” _And since that’s apparently the name of the man I’m dating, isn’t that just a convenient coincidence._

“It’s fine,” Castiel said with a smile. “I like it a lot better than some of the sobriquets my brother prefers. He’s a nickname man, too, though much less apologetically. But…the floor.” He walked over to the damaged corner and knelt to touch it. “All right, that’s honestly not terrible. Looks like the subfloor has a bit of damage here, too, but that’s like patching drywall. Once you fix those spots and refinish the whole thing, you may not even be able to tell which boards have been replaced.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathed in relief. “‘Not terrible’ is starting to become my new favorite phrase.”

Castiel’s knowing smirk had Dean momentarily forgetting the dull ache in his knees and palms. “If you’d like, since I have the saw out from dismantling the drywall, we can go ahead and cut out the damaged wood. That way, Benjamin can bring in the new wood tomorrow when he brings over the roof flashing, and we can get this out of the way quickly.”

Dean was all about that idea, and even more on board when he found himself kneeling nearly shoulder to shoulder with Castiel as they worked to tape the outline of the wood section to be removed. The heat from Castiel’s arm radiated outward against Dean’s, and he had to suppress the impulse to lean into the warmth. “Here, you work the saw,” Castiel said, offering the circular saw to him. When Dean hesitated, more because he’d been so distracted than out of any reluctance to take over, Castiel rolled his eyes and gently reached for Dean’s hand. “Here, just hold it like this. You won’t ruin anything, I promise.”

Now, if Dean had wanted to be truly honest, this would have been a good time to mention that he was at least moderately acquainted with small power tools. Dad had kept a tiny workshop in the garage when Dean and Sam were boys, and, okay, there might not have been a whole lot of major home repairing going on, but he’d built a handful of birdhouses, some simple shelves, and even a passable chair. Cutting a short, straight line under close supervision was nothing.

When Castiel kept his hand cupped over Dean’s grip, fingers laced together as he guided Dean toward the marked spot…well, how could Dean be blamed if he decided that it wasn’t all that important to set this particular record straight? After all, it _had_ been a few decades since that chair; maybe he’d forgotten something. Better to let the expert lead.

Within twenty minutes, they’d neatly cut away a rectangle of damaged wood, leaving a clean hole about a foot in length looking down into the shadows between the supporting floor joists and beneath. “I should put a trap door there,” Dean joked. “Couldn’t trap more than Sam’s foot and ankle, but it’d still be funny. Little tiny rug covering it—”

“Hang on,” Castiel interrupted. He had been brushing the sawdust away from the edges of the hole, and now he paused, hands on either side of the gap and peering down inside. 

Dean winced in anticipation. “God, don’t tell me there’s something wrong with the joists. Man, I am getting pretty damn sick of accidentally finding more shit to fix.”

Castiel shook his head. “No, the joists look fine. It’s just…I think there’s something down there.” He bent closer to the hole, squinting toward the darkness beyond the top edge of the cut. “Can’t quite see, but it’s definitely not insulation or wiring.”

“Maybe this time it’ll be drugs,” Dean joked, trying to angle himself around Castiel so he could get his own glimpse. “I thought you were joking about you guys finding weird things hidden in houses.”

“Hardly.” They were so close that Castiel’s answer rumbled directly into Dean’s ear, warm breath tickling his neck. Goosebumps sprang up on Dean’s flesh, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stay focused on the task at hand. “But I don’t think that’s it. I need my flashlight.”

“Here,” said Dean, shuffling hastily backward on his knees to paw for the flashlight he’d left propped along the wall. Castiel took it and, aiming the beam at an angle into the hole, lowered his upper body to press one side of his face to the wood so he could see as far into the depths as possible. A moment passed in breathless silence, and then Castiel drew in a quick, sharp breath and threw himself away from the gap. 

“What? What is it?” Dean blurted. For some reason, his brain irrationally flashed to an image of a bomb strapped to a floor joist—one of those old-timey ones, with the visible sticks of dynamite.

“I think that’s a fucking skull, Dean,” Castiel said hoarsely, wide-eyed and staring.

“I…” No words seemed to want to come forth; Dean had no idea how to react to this type of situation. Did this even count as a “type of situation”? What the hell could be comparable to finding an actual _body_ in one’s new house? “Like, a human skull?” he managed to whisper. He wanted to look for himself, but at the same time, there was absolutely nothing he wanted to do less. 

“How would I know that?” Castiel said, turning his agitated gaze onto Dean. “I’m not a doctor, Dean! Nor am I an archeologist! All I know is what I’ve seen in movies and TV! You want to play Indiana Jones here, then be my guest.”

They both sat, staring at the hole, neither of them going near it. “Should we…should we call the police?” Dean finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said uncertainly. “This isn’t exactly something covered by our company’s procedure manual. I mean, if it is…human…” He hesitated, then abruptly shook himself, visibly steeled. “But I don’t think it is. There’s not that much space between this floor and the ceiling of the room below, or between the joists holding up this floor. Concealing a human body down there would be…well, the level of determination required, with patching the floor after, wouldn’t have been worth it.”

“Oh, no, wouldn’t want to be an inefficient murderer,” Dean muttered, earning a pained look from Castiel. “Then what is it? Animal?”

“Maybe. I can’t even state for certain that it’s a skull right now,” he replied, throwing up his hands in frustration. 

“I guess we could cut out a little more floor,” Dean cautiously offered. “That wouldn’t be, like, disturbing a crime scene, right? I mean, how would the cops know how much floor we planned to cut away in the first place?”

Castiel chewed his lip. “That’s true,” he said. Both men looked toward the saw. Neither of them moved a hand toward it. “Go ahead, Dean,” Castiel said. “It’s your house. You know how to do this part.”

“I’m not the professional,” Dean argued. “I think when you’re trying to be careful not to accidentally cut into a skeleton under the floor, it should probably be an experienced repairman doing the work.”

They continued to sit in tense stillness, staring. Finally, Castiel made an aggravated sound in his throat. “You tape, I’ll cut,” he decided. “Just make sure you tape off enough of the floor that we don’t have to do this again. Try to, um, estimate the size of…”

Dean would have cursed if there had been an expletive big enough to encompass what he was feeling. He moved slowly over the floor, as though at any moment a skeletal hand would come punching up through the boards to grab his wrist. The moment he was done taping, he fell back, heart pounding. “Your turn.”

Castiel swallowed visibly and nodded. Moving nearly as gingerly as Dean had, he hoisted the saw, pulled the trigger switch to start the blade spinning, and lowered it to the wood. He didn’t seem to even be breathing, lips peeled back around clenched teeth as the saw cut away a much larger section of floor to reveal the space beneath. Then they both slowly leaned in to see finally what had been lying buried there in the darkness.

“Well…” Dean said, frowning. “Is that…uh…”

“It’s definitely a skeleton,” Castiel said, voice roughened even beyond his usual gravelly timbre. “I was correct about that.”

“Yeah, but a skeleton of what?” Dean said in bewilderment. It was clear now that the bones, obviously very old from the look of them, were probably too small to be from even a human infant. Still, if there had been confusion on that end, the long curved tail and the creepy elongated skull would have ended the argument. “That is not a rat.”

Castiel’s shudder was full-body. “Clearly not.” Maybe the skeleton was too small to be human, but any rat that size would be the stuff of horror flicks. “Cat?”

“Look at the tail!” Dean said, pointing. “Have you ever seen a cat whose tail dragged along the floor behind it? Because that’s what that one would have to do.”

“So not a dog, either,” Castiel agreed. “Look at that skull, Dean.”

“Trying not to.” Unsuccessfully trying, admittedly.

“It has a _mohawk of bone._ What kind of animal has a ridge poking out of the top of its skull like that?” 

Dean shrugged. “No alligator I’ve ever seen, but I swear, that’s what the whole shape kind of looks like to me, with the big long jaw and all those…really frigging sharp teeth. An alligator with crazy long legs that bend backward like a dog’s.”

They continued looking at the bones in stumped fascination for another minute. “But it’s really not a human,” Dean finally reiterated.

“No,” Castiel agreed.

“So we can just…” With his hands, Dean gestured vaguely from the bones toward the window, trying to indicate the swift disposal of the whole mess. Castiel looked confused and a little horrified, so apparently the pantomime was less than successful. “Get rid of it?” he clarified, and Castiel’s face relaxed.

“Oh! Yes. Certainly, you can go ahead and do that,” he said, nodding. Then, turning to the side, Castiel began carefully winding the cord attached to the saw around its handle.

Dean’s stomach twisted a little. “Yeah…I’ll just…” He gulped, considering the idea reaching into the hole with his eyes closed and grabbing that freaky skull. His fingers twitched in involuntary protest.

Finally, Castiel decided to take pity on him. “If you get the shovel from the back of my van, I’ll hold a garbage bag while you use it to pull the creature out,” he suggested. “You can bury it in your yard then, if you like.”

Already on his way out the door, Dean paused. “Dude, I was just going to throw it in the garbage,” he said. “Am I not allowed to do that? Is there a health code thing?”

“No, but you might want to consider it,” Castiel said, feigning seriousness. The teasing glint in his eye had finally returned. “It might be considered disrespectful to just throw it in the trash. You don’t want the animal to haunt this house, do you?” Dean threw him a middle finger as he turned and left to grab the shovel, but as he clomped down the stairs, he found himself laughing along with the sound of Castiel’s cackling from above. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta reader: "That is not safe business practice, Castiel. I'm pretty sure Gabe is not insured for this."  
> Me: "No, no, he is not. But since when has Castiel ever practiced common sense when it comes to Dean?"


	4. One Solid Erection (of the Frame)

“Okay, that’ll wrap up this week. You guys have any questions about anything we’ve talked about, or you think you just need to hear it explained by somebody who’s not me, Meg’s got open office hours on Wednesday night or you can make an appointment. Don’t forget, your essays on the structure, processing, and physical properties of polymers are coming up due Monday, so if you haven’t started on those yet, you’re probably in trouble. Don’t wait until it’s too late to dig yourself out.” 

Dean sat back on the edge of his desk and watched the slow progression of undergraduate students leaving the lecture hall, many wearing slightly dazed expressions. That was typical around this time of the semester, when they really started to dive into the meat of the course. It was a shame that it had to coincide with the heart of football season, with all the related parties and celebrations. Prioritization was a weak point for most of the undergrad population, and engineering students were hardly an exception.

“Ugh, I just finished grading the last batch of problem sets,” Meg groaned. “Those were bad enough, and the kids didn’t look half as confused during those lectures as they did for this one. There’s going to be a herd of them waiting at my desk in a panic, you realize.”

“You were there once, too,” Dean reminded her with a smirk. She made a face at him, and he laughed. “These days, you just show up at _my_ desk, panicking over your thesis deadlines.”

Meg sniffed. “I never panic,” she said scornfully. 

“My mistake. You just allow me the pleasure of bearing witness to your elegant suffering.” Though she tried, Meg couldn’t hang onto her poker face, and she wound up giggling and rolling her eyes at the accurate jab.

“Yeah, whatever,” she said. “By the way, your brother was texting you during the lecture. Doesn’t he know that triple-texting just makes him look desperate?”

Dean scooped up the cell phone he’d left sitting on the desk with the rest of his personal things. Sure enough, there was a series of messages from Sam. His mouth twisted unhappily as he read them.

“So Sammy wants a double date with you and your boy toy,” Meg drawled, enjoying his discomfiture. “I take it you haven’t let him in on the full story yet?”

No, he hadn’t. Between one thing and the next, time just kept slipping by, and there never seemed to be a good opportunity to clear the air with Sam. Besides that, Dean had been too busy to spend much time with Sam, period; his evenings were taken up by house projects, and his days were packed with work. Every evening, he crashed hard on the temporary folding cot set up in his unfinished bedroom, and there was just no energy left over for social interaction. Obviously, the recent lack of connection was backfiring on Dean, because now it seemed Sam was keen to up the ante on sharing and caring.

“Now what?” he said as he dropped heavily into a nearby seat. “He’s going to be pissed if he finds out I’ve been lying for this long.”

“Oh, but if you can hold out a little longer, you’ll hit some sort of sweet spot where he’ll be fine with it?” Meg said, arching one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “It’s only going to get worse the longer it goes on. Unless you think you can produce a walking, talking, real-life guy out of nowhere and pass him off as your man, then face it. You’re screwed.”

“I just need more time,” Dean said with a sigh. “Maybe if I can hold him off a few more weeks, I’ll be able to convince him we decided to split up. Sam can do his whole comforting thing, and I’ll let him ply me with hot chocolate while I mope, and then make plans about how to move on.”

“Gee, I wish I had a big brother like you.” Meg’s sarcastic remark sounded particularly derisive this time, but she grabbed her bag and sauntered out before he could reply. 

Dean closed his eyes. “Damn it, she’s not wrong,” he muttered to himself. Even as he’d suggested the plan, though, he knew he could never actually do anything quite that coldly calculating. He always hated lying to his brother; it put a tightness in his neck and shoulders that never quite went away.

Going back to his phone, Dean started typing. 

_> Sam, don’t be pissed, but I don’t really have a boyfriend. _

He immediately erased the confession before sending it, then made another attempt. 

_> I have to tell you something, but you have to promise not to… _

No, that wasn’t fair. Sam had a real right to be upset, didn’t he? Dean was, after all, the one who was at fault, and he deserved every bit of the hurt anger coming his way. He bit his lip at the thought of the look on Sam’s face when he found out the truth.

_Dean (4:06 PM): Work’s busy right now. I’ll call you this weekend._

The shame burned deep in his stomach as he stalked out of the classroom and closed the door with too much force. 

Dean’s guilt-induced wretched mood followed him through the rest of his work day, then through his workout at the university Rec Center. It was the height of poetic justice that he had found himself practically obligated to begin exercising regularly, since, what with his own plumbing currently out of commission, he already had to go to the gym to shower. Jogging on a treadmill was still about as appealing as intensive dental work, but Dean had found that making his way at a moderate trot around the track over the basketball court could be almost relaxing if he focused on watching the pick-up games on the court below. (It was a strategy not without risk, as he discovered one time when a heated game became so engrossing that Dean almost collided with a slower runner ahead of him in his lane.)

Every weight Dean lifted this time just made the weight on his conscience feel that much heavier.

The thing was, he definitely had to tell Sam before he got caught and forced into honesty. That would be the worst outcome. And since Sam had expressed curiosity in their recent conversations about Dean’s progress on the repair work, it was certainly within the bounds of possibility that Sam would just pop by the new place, figuring that if he was already there, Dean wouldn’t be able to refuse. That would be…

Well, it would be particularly inevitable today, Dean realized with chagrin as he turned his car onto his street and saw what awaited him. Ever since that first day, Castiel had been fine with parking his van in the back of the house, but apparently he wasn’t working alone today. A huge box truck, boldly emblazoned with the Deus Ex Machina logo, was parked out front; the back doors were open wide, and a large loading ramp ran from there to the ground. Leaning casually against the ramp with his arms folded was a short man with shaggy brown hair.

The moment Dean pulled into the driveway, he spotted Castiel striding through the front door, looking tense. His eyes were blazing so fiercely that Dean could feel the heat all the way across the yard. Castiel couldn’t move fast enough, even so, to get to Dean before the other man did. “Hey,” the guy said, a broad smile on his face. “I heard somebody here was in need of some good, hard wood.” Every word from the guy’s mouth dripped with so much innuendo that it could have been a line from a porno. Not one of the better ones, either.

“Gabriel,” Castiel growled, reaching them in time to witness the lewd introduction. “Dean, I apologize. This is my brother, a true testament to the sad unpredictability of genetics.”

“Ouch,” Gabriel said. He didn’t look or sound the least bit offended. “I was just explaining that we’ve started reframing the walls damaged from your roof leaks. Dean-o, you have no clue how lucky you got with that. I had no idea you could screw up a roofing job quite so much. Good thing the last couple of winters were mild, or else…” He whistled dramatically. “Anyway, Hannah’s in there helping, since a lot of the electrical work up there needed to be redone with the new framework.”

“Just those couple of little places, though, right?” Dean said. He wanted to be irritated that the electrical work—the part he’d been most looking forward to seeing—was being done in his absence, but he brushed it aside for now. “Cas said it wasn’t a major repair job. There’s nothing else we missed? No reason I should be worrying?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Nah, I just told you. You caught a break by finding this now instead of next year, or it’d probably be a different story, though.” He was still smiling, but Dean’s nerves had been on edge before he’d arrived, and they were only getting worse.

“Then, uh, is it normal for you guys to have the company owner come out to help deliver the materials? Or is there some other problem I need to be worried about?” Dean asked with concern. For a moment, he wondered if that was a weird or offensive thing to ask; Castiel stiffened slightly from his stance beside Dean. Gabriel didn’t seem bothered, though. His grin grew even wider.

“Why, is there something wrong with the big boss coming out into the field to observe all his people, hard at work in the name of his bottom line?” Gabriel promptly cracked up laughing before either Dean or Castiel could respond. “Oh, man. No, you’re right, I never do this. But you, Dean—you tickled my curiosity. Cassie comes back to the office with such _interesting_ tales and tidbits about you that I just knew I needed to get a good look for myself.”

Dean felt his cheeks burn at the thought of being at the center of office gossip, and Castiel sighed loudly and impatiently. “About the _house,_ Gabriel. I’ve told you about the house, just like I tell you about all our projects. It’s procedure.”

“Sure, procedure,” Gabriel agreed with a wink. “All part of the job. Never anything personal or inappropriate. Hah, except that one time, when we were reno’ing that condo for some indie camgirl, and she started filming while you were there. Never seen you that color—”

“And that’ll be enough,” Castiel cut in, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder and turning him toward the house. “You wanted to see the job? Then let’s go look at the job.” Dean was still choking down his snickers at that image, but he stumbled along behind.

“Oh, wow, this could be nice,” Gabriel said when he was standing in the front room, gazing around speculatively. “The walls need to be replastered and painted something other than baby-shit green, and that chair rail is a crime against good taste. Is that even real wood? Of course, the carpet would probably have been better used for rolling up and hiding a body than laying on a floor, even when it was new. But otherwise, yeah, nice.”

“In that it’s got four walls and an intact ceiling?” Dean couldn’t help sarcastically asking.

“Mmm, intact for now,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “Cassie, is that water staining over in the corner? Did you check for leaks there?”

“Yes, I did,” Castiel said firmly before Dean could start to panic even more. “It’s an old stain. No signs of any current problems.”

Gabriel nodded. “Yeah, I see now,” he said. “Actually, it kind of looks more like an upward splatter that spread, you know? Kind of makes you wonder. Really gets the imagination going, doesn’t it? Like those stains on the carpet over there. Wouldn’t want to take a blacklight to this room.” He winked again, traipsing through the doorway toward the kitchen. 

“Dean, I am so sorry,” Castiel murmured, turning toward him with eyes that were huge and apologetic. “If I’d had the slightest hint that he might be showing up, I would have at least warned you. Gabriel is very much an acquired taste, and there aren’t that many people who care to acquire it.” His hands waved helplessly in the air between them. Without thinking too hard about it, Dean reached out and gently knocked them down, putting his own reassuring hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Look, it’s okay. Not your fault. Gabe can get his look at the horror show that is my house, and then he’ll be satisfied, right?”

Castiel appeared extremely skeptical, but he flattened his lips and nodded. “Just try not to listen to anything he says,” he insisted. “Gabriel likes to hear himself talk, and he’ll do whatever he can to try to make you squirm because he thinks it’s funny. Please ignore him.”

“Hey, Deanie-Weenie!” came a shout from the second story, as if on cue. “I like the look of this bathroom! Not bad at all!” Exchanging a look of shared trepidation, Dean and Castiel broke apart so they could head up the stairs. Dean flexed his hand at his side, remembering just how amazingly sculpted Castiel’s shoulder had felt in his grip. However much muscle was easily visible in those powerful arms, he must have been hiding just as much under his clothes. _Which is not a thought we need to be thinking right now, especially with his brother waiting for us._

They found Gabriel standing in the middle of what eventually was going to be a much nicer bathroom than even Dean had originally planned. After some early discussions, Dean had decided that since they already needed to demolish so much of the plumbing, they might as well do a little more reconfiguring of the space to make it a bit less cramped. The old tub was in the process of being replaced by a tiled shower stall behind a glass door, and just that change alone was a huge transformation.

“You know what would be really sweet in here?” Gabriel said. “A heated floor. Step out from that shower onto nice warm tiles instead of freezing ones? That’s the kind of little touch that makes all the difference, especially when you’re entertaining company.” Another suggestive wink accompanied the recommendation, leaving no room for doubt over what sort of company he was implying. 

“I’m not sure that’s in the cards at the moment,” Castiel interjected, giving Dean another apologetic look. “The electrical system in the house is rather old. Adding more circuits is a lower priority right now than bringing the existing ones up to code.”

“Ah, bummer. Nothing like a heated bathroom floor. Hey, didn’t you always say you wanted one, Cassie?” Gabriel elbowed Castiel in the ribs, earning himself a glower in return.

“Will you please stop calling me that?” Castiel complained. “It’s beyond annoying, and you know it.”

“Right, right,” Gabriel said, tapping his lip pensively with a finger. “You prefer ‘Cas’ now, if I remember. Even though you once told me that _all_ nicknames—” 

Dean was awkwardly looking out into the hallway, wondering how he could subtly make his escape from the argument, but a loud crashing sound had him spinning in surprise. A stack of pipes that had been piled in the corner beside Castiel had suddenly come unbalanced and toppled heavily to the floor. “Shit, look out,” Dean said, grabbing Castiel’s arm to pull him out of the path of the rolling pipes. Thankfully, it looked like none had landed on his feet, even though the steel-toed boots would have protected them.

“He’s fine,” Gabriel told Dean. There was an odd note in his voice, and his grin had finally slipped. He was watching Dean now with an assessing look. _Probably worried I might start doubting their competence or something,_ Dean figured. “And I think I’ve had a pretty good look at everything I needed to see, so I’ll let you get back to it. I’ll see you tonight, Castiel.” He deliberately emphasized his brother’s full name, then sauntered out of the room and back down the stairs.

Castiel looked like he was holding his breath, waiting for Gabriel’s footsteps to fade into the distance. Then he exhaled deeply, sagging against the wall. “If I didn’t make it clear before, I’ll reiterate. I am _deeply_ sorry about that. For whatever it’s worth, he’s…unlikely to come back again. Gabriel usually prefers working behind the scenes, never actually getting his own hands dirty.”

“And like I told you, it’s not your fault,” Dean replied. “I think I’ve gotten to know you pretty well at this point, enough to know that you’re nothing at all like him. Jesus, how did your folks manage to produce the both of you? You sure one of you wasn’t the mailman’s kid?”

Castiel’s brow unfurrowed slightly, his clenched jaw easing. “You haven’t even seen the other siblings in our family. Anna’s the next thing to a hippie, living out in Oregon as a writer. Michael, the oldest of us, is career military. And Luke gave us all the middle finger and took off years back, so I have no idea what he’s up to, except that it’s probably nothing legal.”

“Wow,” Dean said, eyebrows shooting upward. “Can’t imagine what Thanksgiving looks like at your place.”

Castiel shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, “ he replied. “Gabriel’s the only family member with whom I willingly interact. One brother is plenty, as far as I’m concerned, at least out of my current options. Your brother may irritate you when he becomes too intrusive, but you do seem to love each other regardless of that.”

The reminder of Sam and the current situation with him washed over Dean like a bucket of ice water. “Yeah, we do,” he said shortly. “Hey, I’m gonna go check out the wiring progress in the attic. Don’t go trying to break any more toes while I’m gone.”

Dean managed to lose himself for more than an hour in the business of helping Hannah feed new wires down through the walls toward the places they needed to go. Initially, Hannah had been very reluctant to involve Dean in the work, since overeager home buyers often liked to try jumping into projects about which they had no idea, but once he convinced her that, at least in this area, he actually did know what he was talking about, she was glad to have the extra hands. Running these wires was the simple part, anyway. These particular circuits were the ones that seemed to have been installed by professionals, not unhinged DIYers.

When Hannah and the other workers had packed up the truck and left for the evening, Dean found his way back to the bathroom, where Castiel was clearing away leftover clutter from the freshly completed framing job for the new wall. “Looking good,” Dean praised, running a hand over the vertical studs and appreciating the warmth of the wood against his palm.

“Yes, I think so,” Castiel said mildly, glancing up at Dean with sawdust in his messy hair and a tired smile. When he took in the nervous edge that Dean knew was still obvious in his tight shoulders—he’d been trying to remind himself to consciously relax them when he felt them creeping up to his ears, but that never lasted long—Castiel’s expression turned sour.

“Gabriel really did upset you, didn’t he?” he asked Dean. Without waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet and faced Dean fully. “If it will help, I will make it crystal clear to him that his crudeness today could have lost us this contract. He needs to understand that he didn’t just ‘lighten the mood.’ He made you uncomfortable, which is simply not acceptable.” Castiel appeared physically pained, far more deeply than Dean thought was warranted over a few teasing cracks and a little familial bickering in public.

“No, don’t worry about that. I promise, I’m already over it. I mean, he seemed to be riding you harder than he was me, if you want to split hairs.” Castiel looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded and looked away, still unhappy. “Seriously, Cas. This is not about your brother. I’m just kind of in a bad mood for…personal reasons.”

“Oh!” Castiel said, going from embarassed to mortified in a heartbeat. “God, I’m sorry. I’m intruding, making everything about…of course, you have many other things going on in your life outside of this job and your house. Please, just tell me to mind my own business, and I promise I won’t—”

“Dude,” Dean interrupted, warm feelings kindling in his chest despite the stress of the day. Castiel looked so adorably awkward over the misunderstanding that Dean couldn’t help but grow a little more fond of the guy. _Yeah, sure, fond. That’s a totally accurate description of an all-consuming attraction that passed crush territory about fifty miles back._ “Stop freaking out. Jeez, you’re acting like I’m hiding a terminal illness or something. It’s just…I did a stupid thing, and then I _kept_ doing it, and now I’m going to have to deal with the fallout.”

Castiel was the picture of sincerity, wide eyes brimming with sympathy. “I’m sure that whatever you did, it can’t be nearly as terrible as you’re thinking. I know I just apologized for intruding, but…well, I’ve been told I’m a good listener. Maybe I can help? Or at least let you get some of the weight off your shoulders?”

Dean chuckled nervously. “You might be saying that now, but…what the hell. I guess I might as well do a trial run for this. You’re probably going to be pretty annoyed with me, too.”

“Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be upset.”

“Dean, what the hell?”

“See? Told you.” From his seat on the floor against the wall, Dean wrapped his arms around his knees and dropped his head onto them heavily.

Sitting across from him, Castiel stuck out a foot to nudge roughly at Dean’s ankle. “I just don’t understand how you’ve let it go on this long! It’s been over a month! How often do you and Sam talk to each other?” 

“At least four times a week, counting phone calls and texting?” Dean guessed, cringing.

Another nudge, harder. “And of those exchanges, how many have involved at least an oblique mention of your relationship status?” 

“Ow, watch the steel toes. Maybe…half.” More like three quarters, but Dean’s leg was getting sore. From the pinched look on Castiel’s face, he could tell the number was being fudged.

“So not only have you kept up this charade through dozens of perfectly good opportunities to put an end to it, you’ve probably had to tell other lies based on the first one in order to keep it going. You gave him my _name,_ Dean.”

“Not your whole name! And I didn’t mean to. It just came out, since he’d heard your voice over the phone, so…”

The eye roll Castiel demonstrated expressed epic levels of aggravation. “So you figured you’d base even more of your fictional love interest on me while you were at it. Dean, when I said I didn’t mind if you didn’t rush over and tell him the truth right then, I didn’t mean I thought you should drag it out as long as possible, turning one lie into an entire fictional saga.”

Feeling a little indignant, Dean felt the need to poke back. “You said if it were you, you wouldn’t tell! I clearly remember you saying that.”

“That was about not telling him you hired a contractor! And that’s not the same thing at all!” Castiel argued.

“How do you figure?” Dean fired back. “It’s okay to let him believe I’m capable of renovating an entire house by myself, just to make it easier for him to accept I’m bisexual, but letting him believe I have a boyfriend? No, that would be crossing a line!” 

“It crossed a line when it involved a third party,” Castiel growled, but Dean wasn’t having it.

“It involved your name, not you. Not even your name! Just your nickname, which, according to your brother, isn’t even something you want to have.”

“I hate _him_ nicknaming me, not you!” Castiel said heatedly. 

“Well, that’s good, because I’m not going to start calling you Castiel all the time!” said Dean. He was pretty sure that at some point this argument had gone off the rails a bit, but hell if he knew how to pull the brakes.

“Good!” snapped Castiel with a scowl.

“Fine!” snapped Dean right back. 

They glared at each other in silence, chests heaving in frustration. It was the weirdest, most confusing fight Dean could remember, and as his irritation ebbed, it was replaced with an empty sort of disorientation. “So I take it you’d be happy if I called him up right now and told him the truth,” Dean said, trying to rally some of the fire he’d been feeling. It came out sounding a lot weaker than he wanted.

Castiel huffed, rocking his head back against the wall dully. “No,” he said. “Actually, at this point, it’d be such a train wreck that even I don’t want to witness the fallout. And…honestly…” He bit back a dry laugh and put a palm over his face for a second. “I can’t say I’ve never been tempted to fake something like this to get Gabe off my back. I never actually _did,_ but I suppose I’m somewhat sympathetic.” 

“Yeah, well, even so, I’m going to have to tell him soon anyway,” Dean sighed. “He’s so damn happy for me that now he’s begging me to let him meet you. Uh, I mean, not you. The fake you. God, I guess you’re right, I did get you involved in this.”

“Well, truthfully, if that’s all he wants, I’d be happy to meet him,” Castiel said, grinning wryly. “You’ve talked about Sam enough while we’ve been working, and other than the whole emotional overinvolvement in your personal life, he sounds like a good man.”

Dean felt his humor returning along with Castiel’s. “He is, but there’s this little problem where he thinks you’re ‘Cas, Dean’s boyfriend,’ not ‘Castiel, the contractor saving Dean’s ass.’” 

Another contemplative moment passed. Resignation lay heavy on Dean’s chest, and he was considering hauling himself to his feet and dragging himself to his cot. Castiel broke the silence this time. “Do you think he’d see through that?”

“Hmm?” Dean said. Maybe he was more tired than he’d thought. “See through what?”

“Let’s say he met me. I’m absolutely not saying I like the idea of deceiving people, but…unfortunately, the simplest solution to everything right now might be to keep up the act, if you think he’d buy me as your boyfriend, and to tell him that I’ve got some experience with home remodeling and have been helping you a great deal with your own project. That wouldn’t be completely inaccurate, and there would at least be a little more honesty in the whole mess than there currently is.”

“I’m not sure how you’re reaching that conclusion,” Dean said. “You think that having you come with me, meet my brother, tell him we’ve been dating, actually _act_ like we’ve been dating, and letting him keep on believing that I’m not, in fact, depressingly alone and likely to stay that way…that wouldn’t be making things even worse?”

Castiel slid sideways toward some spots of old paint on the floor and started scratching at them with a fingernail. “Maybe it would,” he said carelessly, not looking up from the splatter. “On the other hand, we might be able to encourage him to back off entirely, or at least a fraction, by easing the novelty of the situation. It would also remove the concern of him popping by unexpectedly and finding me here, especially if you’re delayed coming home from work.”

“But what about when you finish up with this job? We just…” Dean hesitated, remembering how awful he’d felt about even the idea of letting Sam comfort him through a breakup that wasn’t real.

“An amicable parting of ways,” Castiel finished. He looked up from the paint spots, a small, rueful smile flickering briefly. “It turns out that we were better off as friends after all.”

There was one major flaw in all of this, but it was one Dean couldn’t say out loud. _How the hell am I supposed to have you be my fake boyfriend without breaking my very real heart?_ There was absolutely no way that this sort of charade wouldn’t be like a knife to the chest. Having to stand by Castiel’s side, even if it took only one evening for Sam to be satisfied, and to reveal all the attraction he’d been working so hard to hide while letting Castiel think it was an act would be painful. To have Castiel reciprocate his affection while sharply aware that not a bit of it was genuine…that would be excruciating. 

“Why would you do it?” he asked, hoping none of his anxiety was showing on his face or in his voice. “None of this is your problem. Even if I told Sam the truth and he punched me in the face and refused to speak to me ever again, which I’m pretty sure would never happen, why would you even care? He wouldn’t get pissed at you.”

“Dean,” Castiel said with a frown. “Is it such a stretch for you to believe that I might care just because I _like_ you? We’ve been working side by side for weeks, and I’ve come to know you quite well, I think. You’re compassionate, kind, generous, hard-working, _mostly_ honest…” Dean chuckled quietly, and Castiel shook his head in mock scolding. “...and I truly count you as a friend. After this project wraps up, I would be disappointed if I didn’t have the opportunity to spend time with you in the future. And I won’t be able to do that if your brother murders you.”

Caught off-guard by the joke, Dean choked on a laugh. After he’d recovered, while Castiel had looked quite pleased with himself, he said, “Already told you, Sam’s not really a physical violence kind of guy. His guilt trips are almost worse sometimes, though. Anyway, thanks for all that...you know, what you said.” The praise had made his face feel as though it could catch fire, but he couldn’t deny how good it had felt to hear. “Buddy, I would love to grab a beer with you when this is all done. You don’t need to fake-date me for that.”

“Well, we could get drinks cheaper on couples’ nights,” Castiel teased, and Dean’s blush got hotter. “Truthfully, it’s not a hardship, and if it would save you some pain, it’s worth it. I do have one condition, however.”

“Anything,” Dean hurried to respond. “You name it, Cas.”

Stern and unblinking, Castiel leaned forward toward Dean before speaking. “Gabriel is not to know _any_ of this,” he said. “You have no idea what he would put me through if he knew about this scheme. If you thought he was bad today, you severely underestimate how unbearable he can be when he puts effort into it.”

“Not a word,” Dean promised. “All this is just between you and me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly go wrong?


	5. Laying Pipe and Feeling Some Electricity

“You’re an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. And also, you’re not even supposed to know about any of this, so shut up.”

“How exactly was that ever going to work, trying to keep me in the dark?” Meg said, snickering. Her feet, propped on her desk, were coming dangerously close to kicking over her coffee mug, which was half-full of tepid coffee and proudly declaring in all capital letters, _Without engineering, science is just philosophy._ “There’s your calendar, right there on my computer, telling me you’re going to be unavailable for office hours because of ‘dinner with Sam.’ I already knew all about your little misinformation campaign and how close Sam was getting to finally breaking you down, but now, all of a sudden and with no explanation, you’re no longer Mister Mopey-Pants over it.”

“You know, I am technically your boss,” he protested, though any authority he’d ever had was being sapped by his current position: sitting backwards on a second office chair and leaning his forehead against the top of the headrest.

“So dock my paycheck,” Meg answered with a smirk before going on. “You’re all tense and fidgety, but not grouchy, so something must have happened to change the scene. I’m well aware of how much you were dreading having to come clean, so either you figured out a fool-proof way to do it without Sam getting pissed, or…you figured out a way for you to keep the game going.”

Dean groaned and pushed his face harder against the leather. “I’m so glad that my personal life can provide you with such entertainment.”

“And whatever stupid plan you came up with, it’s a plan that has you wearing the sexy blazer. You only wear that one when you have a hot date or you’re trying to sweet talk Mrs. Tran into giving you first dibs on holiday potluck treats. These days, it’s pretty much just the second scenario, but I’m not aware of any potluck goings-on.” She grinned almost ferally. “So…date. Two plus two equals four in most controlled laboratory settings; ergo, you have a date with someone who’s agreed to be your fake boyfriend for the night.” 

Dean lifted his head and glared at Meg, but he had no real rebuttal to offer. “Mrs. Tran says the blazer looks distinguished, not sexy. Hell, I don’t really want to imagine Mrs. Tran even using the word ‘sexy.’”

“You must have been hanging out in the wrong corner of the ballroom during last year’s Founder’s Gala, then. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have to imagine it. She gets feisty after the third glass of champagne.” Giggling at Dean’s shudder, Meg continued her interrogation, saying, “And don’t dodge the subject. Jesus, all of this just to get out of admitting you were wrong about something.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Dean argued unconvincingly, even to himself.

Meg snorted. “That’s what it’s always about. So what did you do, go on Craigslist and offer to pay someone? Go on Grindr and offer to—”

“Hello? Um, Meg?” To Dean’s relief, the tentative voice of a young student interrupted the accusation. The student was standing outside the office doorway, looking distressed. “I was wondering if you could help me out a little with state space representations? I’m having a little trouble with, um…” Her eyes darted furtively toward Dean, then quickly away.

“That’s my cue,” Dean said, shifting himself to his feet. On his way out, he gave the student what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Don’t feel bad. It’s a hard topic. Sometimes it helps to have somebody else put these things in another set of words. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do by asking for help. Don’t ever be afraid to ask for help if you need it, you know?” Meg snorted, which he ignored.

“Thanks, Dr. Winchester.” The girl visibly relaxed, and she blushed a little as she smiled back. “Um, I wanted to tell you, I really like your jacket.”

“See, there’s another vote,” Meg drawled. “So, Krissy, would you call his jacket ‘distinguished’? Or maybe something else?”

Dean pointed a threatening finger at her, then fled as quickly as he could manage without actually running.

They were meeting Sam and Eileen at a bar and grill near the senior center where Eileen worked as Wellness Director. Dean realized, as he explained to Castiel where they were going, that he’d never actually mentioned that his sister-in-law was deaf. “But you don’t need to worry or anything. She’s really good at reading lips. If Sam or I use sign language with her, we’ll speak out loud, too, so you won’t be left out. Not everyone in our circle knows sign, so we’re pretty used to doing that.”

“I’m not worried,” Castiel said. He was the picture of serenity, his deep blue sweater managing somehow to be both devastatingly hot and unbearably snuggly. Dean wanted to bury his face in it for all sorts of reasons, and it was starting to become a problem. “It’s been years, and I’ll be quite rusty, but one of Dad’s sisters was deaf, and I learned some ASL from her when I was young.”

“That’s awesome,” Dean said with complete sincerity. “You’re just full of hidden talents, aren’t you? Is there anything you can’t do?” He mentally cursed himself for his lack of subtlety, but Castiel didn’t seem weirded out.

“Horses,” he replied without missing a beat. “They don’t like me, and the feeling is sort of mutual, though that’s probably because their dislike is backed up with big teeth and powerful hooves. So I can’t ride, and I’m not even entirely comfortable in wagons pulled by horses. They _look_ at me, and I can just feel how happy they’d be to send me flying.”

Dean couldn’t tell whether Castiel was pulling his leg or just stretching the truth for the humor of it, but it didn’t matter; the moment they met eyes, they both cracked up laughing. “Heh, guess it’s a good thing I didn’t tell Sam you were a racehorse trainer, or maybe a rodeo clown.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes in sudden thought. “What did you tell Sam about me? I should have asked earlier. I only know that he doesn’t think I’m a contractor, and apparently not a jockey, either.” 

“Right, shit. We should actually get our story straight. Yikes, almost screwed that up,” Dean said, wincing as he realized how close he’d come to a major fumble. “Okay, so, you’re supposedly a personal trainer. Fitness, gym stuff, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Castiel’s eyebrows were at his hairline. “That would have been fantastic to know earlier. I haven’t been inside a gym since my freshman year of high school. I think I remember something about jumping jacks?”

“Shit,” Dean hissed. “Oh, God. Okay, it’s okay. We’ll just…we can still do this. You can just talk about how exercise is, uh, great? And if he asks about specific weights or machines, I’ll try to—” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel’s shoulders shaking. “And you’re fucking with me, aren’t you? Dude, that is so not cool right now.”

“I’m sorry!” Castiel gasped as he laughed. “But your face! God, Dean, that was absolutely priceless. And you had at least that much coming, you know. I may be helping you out with this whole thing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you could stand to suffer a little bit.” 

“Asshole,” Dean said, smiling in spite of the fact that his heart rate still hadn’t recovered. Castiel’s head was thrown back, and the line of his exposed throat drew Dean’s eyes like a siren song. He wanted to press his lips to the hollow above his collar bone, trace his tongue over his Adam’s apple, and nuzzle at the warmth under his jaw. His fantasies were so vivid that Dean didn’t even realize he was staring, or that Castiel had finished laughing and was staring back.

“You’re not really that anxious, are you?” Castiel asked, sounding more thoughtful. He reached across the seats to rest a hand bracingly on Dean’s arm. “I promise, it’s going to be fine. When we walk in there, Sam won’t see anything except the brother whom he loves and the adoring boyfriend who’s proud to be by his side. It’ll be as simple as that.”

Dean nodded. “Okay,” he replied. _As simple as that, so long as I keep telling myself not to forget that it’s all an act._ “I believe you.”

Sam was practically shooting heart-eyes across the table at Castiel, and if it weren’t for the fact that Dean knew his brother’s biggest turn-on had to do with seeing the people around him find happiness, he might have suspected that Sam was developing his own little crush. But no, Sam was just in love with Dean being in love, which sounded way creepier than it really was when his brain phrased it like that. Probably, anyway. And who said anything about love in the first place? Not Dean, certainly. Jesus, the mental gymnastics were getting exhausting, and they’d barely had the chance to place their dinner orders. 

Eileen, lovely as ever and obviously still way out of his brother’s league, had been swayed from the moment they’d walked into the restaurant waiting area and Castiel had greeted her politely in ASL. He hadn’t been playing at modesty when he warned Dean that he was out of practice; more than once, he had to fingerspell what he wanted to say, but he didn’t get frustrated over the memory lapses, and he grew noticeably more fluent as the evening passed.

“I actually helped my sister build her farmhouse,” Castiel was saying, speaking aloud slowly so that he could sign the words at the same time. Even though everyone at the table could speak sign, it made for less confusion when his memory of the correct hand shapes failed him. “That was the first time I ever did anything as massive as that, and it was quite different from simply repairing or updating parts of a house that already existed. It was very much a learning experience.”

Dean had no idea whether the story was true or not. It was at least plausible. He made a mental note to ask about it on the drive home.

“And you guys did it without a professional crew?” Eileen asked curiously. “Even the planning?”

“Well, she was pretty certain about what she wanted, and she got a lot of ideas from looking at home plans from books and websites. We didn’t just try to…um. Wing it?” Castiel hesitated when he came to the idiom, obviously not able to come up with the correct way to communicate it in sign. He shrugged and pantomimed flapping wings, already laughing at himself before a giggling Eileen could correct him.

“That’s still pretty amazing,” Sam said. “I guess I was wrong when I told Dean that it was unrealistic to just jump into something like that without professional assistance.”

“I won’t say that it was easy, or that we didn’t make mistakes,” Castiel admitted. “As I said, it was the first major project, and sometimes we’d get so caught up in one task that we’d forget that others needed to be done before we could continue. There was one wall in her kitchen that I think we had to tear down and redo twice because we’d forgotten things that needed to be inside it.”

Dean snickered. “Well, I bet it looked perfect by the third time, with all that practice.” Castiel made a face at him, leaning sideways so that he could knock his shoulder against Dean’s.

“So all that hands-on experience has got to make working on Dean’s place a lot easier, right?” Sam said. “He said it was in rough shape, but at least it was already built.”

“Eh, sometimes that’s not as much of an advantage as you might think. Not if the construction work is very old, or if it was done poorly from the start, and definitely not if it’s both old _and_ poorly designed.” Castiel grabbed a peanut from the basket on the table, shelled it, then popped it into his mouth before continuing. “I’m not saying that Dean’s house has bad bones, but, well, it was rather like a person who had many, many botched surgeries. We needed to break the bones and reset them, which has not been easy.”

“Like what?” Eileen said, leaning forward over the table eagerly.

“Well, I was caught rather off guard when I found an automotive radiator hose used to replace part of the primary drain stack,” Castiel said, to the delight of both Sam and Eileen, who crowed with laughter. 

In fact, it had been Gad, the company’s chief plumber, who’d made that discovery a few days before. Dean had heard the shout from across the house, and he’d booked it toward the sound as quickly as he could run, fearing that someone had been hurt. He found Gad kneeling on the floor, stunned into near speechlessness as he gestured toward the drain stack in horror. When he could finally speak, all he said, over and over for several minutes, was, “What were they _thinking?_ What the hell were they _thinking?”_

“Hey, at least that strategy was sort of working and wasn’t going to actively kill me,” Dean said. “Yesterday evening, when I took down the light fixture in the bedroom, I found fucking knob and tube.” At Sam’s blank look, he clarified, “It’s the wiring they used to use in houses around the turn of the century. And I’m not talking about the one twenty years ago. The moment I saw all those little ceramic knobs, I almost swallowed my own tongue.”

“Mind you, it’s not inherently dangerous,” Castiel said, “so long as it was done well and not overloaded.”

“Yeah, done well. Which seems pretty damn unlikely, considering everything else we’ve found,” Dean grumbled. “Even if it was, only because the most recent owners never bothered to get their little paws on that part of the house to screw it up, it’s also used in the kitchen circuit, which means that there’s no way it hasn’t been overloaded with all the modern appliances. The biggest problem is that it has no ground wire, and the insulation on the wires is rubber, so it breaks down. It’s like asking for a fire.”

Those had, in fact, been Hannah’s exact words when Dean had taken a photo and texted it to her. The two of them had really bonded over the all the wiring sins, and Dean rather enjoyed watching the otherwise mild woman lose her shit over bad electrical work.

“That doesn’t sound like a cheap fix,” Sam said, and Dean shook his head and held up a warning hand.

“Nope,” he said firmly, “that’s nothing we need to be talking about. I’ll tell you all you want to hear about the work, but the price tag is between me and my wallet. Come on, I don’t ask you what you bill hourly, or how much you spend on boxes of Kleenex for all the weeping couples you see in a week.”

“That’s hardly on the same level,” Sam said, but he relented. “At least let us get the next round,” he said, then jumped up and headed to the bar before Dean could even think about protesting.

“So, Dean says you work in fitness,” Eileen asked, turning to face Castiel. “Do you ever work with any elderly clients?” Dean froze, not having the first clue how they were going to make it through this line of questioning, but Castiel apparently had it covered.

“Oh, often,” he said cheerfully. “It’s actually not so different from working with clients of any other age. I always have to get to know the people I train as individuals, learning what they can and can’t do, as well as what they hope to accomplish. Not everybody wants to be able to bench press a car or win the Tour de France.”

“Most of the seniors at our center just want to be able to move and be active without pain,” Eileen agreed. “Even the ones in wheelchairs are happier when they can be as mobile as possible and participate in activities around them.”

“That’s true of almost everyone. Take Dean, I mean. Dean, you always look happier after a good workout, and it bleeds into everything else you do.” He patted Dean’s forearm, which lay on the table between them, and for a moment, Dean forgot that they were pretending.

“You can tell when I’ve been working out?” he asked, thinking of all the evenings he’d trudged into the house on tired legs but feeling somehow rejuvenated in spite of the muscle soreness. Had Castiel really noticed a difference? Had he been watching Dean closely enough to note the connection? He felt himself blush at the idea, and he hoped the bar was dim enough that nobody could tell.

“Of course I can,” Castiel scoffed good-naturedly. “It’s sort of what I do for a living, _babe.”_ There was a slight emphasis on the pet name, a gentle reminder to stay focused and not lose sight of the story. “Besides,” he added with a mischievous wink, “it’s not as though I’m not right there with you when you’re working up a good sweat.”

Dean’s involuntary intake of breath was hidden beneath the much louder groan Sam gave as he returned to the table with four bottles of beer in time to catch Castiel’s remark. “That is the last picture I needed to have in my head,” he complained after setting down the bottles so he could take up signing again. Eileen just smirked at him, unbothered.

“It’s a natural act, Sammy,” Dean said, aiming desperately for his usual level of cocky assurance. Castiel was absolutely killing it, but that alone was throwing Dean off his game, as hot as it was to see him like this. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Feeling daring, he lifted his arm from the table and rested it along the seat back behind Castiel’s shoulders. For a second, he thought Castiel stiffened slightly, but then he was leaning into Dean’s side and resting his head against Dean’s shoulder. The contact sent a small whiff of Castiel’s light cologne swirling enticingly toward Dean’s nose. _Fuck,_ he thought eloquently.

“I’m not sure if there's anything I’d consider natural about you spending time in a gym,” Sam teased. “I don’t know if you realize just how much that’s throwing me, Cas. Dean spent years insisting that exercise was a form of torture.”

Stomach tightening, Dean felt the edges of his hurt feelings and embarrassment start to well up again, but they were short-circuited by the warmth of Castiel’s hand resting firmly on his leg. Unseen beneath the table, Castiel squeezed in silent reassurance, and Dean was struck with the knowledge that not only had Castiel noticed whatever tiny reaction he must have given, but that he’d wanted to stop those feelings in their tracks. 

“Perhaps it was the way in which exercise was presented to Dean when you were younger,” Castiel replied. He pulled his hand away from Dean’s thigh so he could sign, but he nestled more closely against Dean before continuing. Dean felt the loss of the heat of his palm like an ache. “Some coaches and gym teachers don’t bother to make exercise into much more than torture, or something through which to suffer for a grade or artificially constructed social standing. I’ve always felt that it’s rather unfair to hold someone accountable for opinions formed under those sorts of conditions, rather than allowing them the latitude to change their mind after new experiences and exposure to other perspectives. Don’t you agree?”

Sam looked positively chastened. “Of course,” he said. “Dean knows I’m just teasing, right?” He looked up at Dean guiltily. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said, even though it really wasn’t. From the small noise Castiel made, inaudible to anyone else around them, Castiel was also aware that it wasn’t. “Not like I’m ever going to be running a marathon or anything, so don’t go thinking I’ve changed that much.”

“Don’t rule out the idea too quickly,” Castiel said, his small negating head shake having the accidental effect of softly brushing that chronically messy dark hair against Dean’s neck. Goosebumps rose, which were promptly startled away by Castiel’s next words. “Marathons are fun,” he proclaimed, in what had to be the biggest whopper of the century. Dean gaped at him, genuinely appalled.

“You’ve done marathons?” said Eileen, fingers flying in excitement. The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of their food, and the enjoyment of his bacon cheeseburger gave Dean a perfect excuse to ignore the chatter between his sister-in-law and Castiel about their favorite races. He wasn’t able to avoid hearing Castiel declare that he preferred winter races, and that his running tights were more than sufficient to keep him from freezing. Great, now he’d have that mental image stuck firmly in his head along with all the other fantasies that were accumulating at an alarming rate.

This was even harder than he had anticipated that it would be. Sitting there in the booth with his family, watching Castiel tease and joke and laugh with the people whose opinions most mattered to him, Dean felt like he was being taunted with a glimpse of everything he’d ever wanted, along with everything he’d never even known that he needed. He could see himself there, in moments like this one, for the rest of his damned life, without ever getting restless or feeling the need to move on in search of something new. Castiel just fit. It wasn’t enough that he was gorgeous, sexy, smart, capable, and compassionate; he also had to be perfect boyfriend material in this, too.

“Dean, you didn’t tell me you knew how to ballroom dance,” Castiel broke into Dean’s wandering thoughts. He sounded delighted, and his grin was positively ecstatic. “How could you keep something like that from me?”

Oh, God. He should have been paying attention. “Eileen, what are you doing to me?” he moaned. Sam was practically levitating with glee over the turn of events.

“Castiel was interested in the wellness programs at the center, and I told him you helped as a volunteer,” she said smugly. “He just wanted to know what sort of activities you helped with. I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Dean, I would love to come along some time and see you in action,” Castiel said, his voice dropping seductively. “The thought of you sweeping those ladies off their feet just…I honestly don’t think I can go on without witnessing that. Please, I must.”

“You know, it’s not that hard to learn. I’ll bet that Dean could teach you,” Eileen suggested. “Then you could come and volunteer with him. We can always use more volunteers.”

“You hear that, Dean?” Castiel said. “Eileen says I can join you. You wouldn’t deprive those lonely matrons of a bit of excitement, would you?” He batted his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. The color was high in his cheeks, probably due to the alcohol he’d been enjoying, and he glowed with it.

Dean wished he could lose himself in the lie as thoroughly as Castiel had. He knew he wouldn’t be taking Castiel dancing, either with a bunch of senior citizens or by themselves in a more intimate setting. He could easily imagine holding Castiel close in his arms, walking him through the foxtrot and waltz, but imagining it was all he was ever going to get to do. He’d never get the chance to have his feet stomped on by this man, laughing as they fumbled the dance steps. He’d never get to have…

He sighed, cloaking it at the last minute as a melodramatic groan of surrender. “Fine, we’ll see,” he said, rolling his eyes at Eileen’s pumped fist. “But we’re pretty busy with the home stuff, so don’t go thinking we’ll be there anytime soon.”

The drive home was quieter than the trip there. Dean had switched to water halfway through the evening, but the way Castiel was practically melting into the car seat, tapping out the rhythms of the songs playing on the radio against his legs and humming along with the choruses, made him wonder just how sober his date was. Dean hadn’t seen him drink enough to warrant it, but maybe the guy was just a lightweight.

“You have a really nice family,” Castiel said, and, yeah, there was that streak of sentimental dopiness that some dudes get when they drink a little too much. Dean bit his lip against his grin, trying not to show how adorable he found it.

“Yeah, they’re not bad,” he answered. “You certainly seemed to hit it off with them. How much of all that was you making up stuff, though?”

“Not much at all, really,” Castiel said, sounding surprised. “Just the part where you and I are fellow gym rats, I think. These days, I get enough of a workout hauling construction supplies around to make free weights a bit superfluous.”

“But the rest?” Dean asked. “The marathons, Anna’s house, wanting to be a beekeeper when you were a kid?”

“All true. I even still have vague thoughts of keeping bees someday, when I’m too old and worn out to be climbing scaffolding or wriggling into crawl spaces.”

“Yeah, I can just see you in one of those big, goofy white suits with the mesh face thing,” Dean said with a smirk. “Probably selling jars of honey at some farmers’ market on the weekends, chatting up all the grannies who come by to pinch your cheeks.” 

“No, grannies are apparently your niche,” Castiel retorted dryly. “You’re the Lothario of the geriatric dating pool. I was also serious about what I said regarding that, by the way. I would pay to see you showing off your dance moves at Eileen’s center.”

Dean found himself without a ready comeback, so he just rolled his eyes, letting Castiel have the last word in their teasing match. Castiel returned to his soft tapping, resting his head against the cool glass of the window and closing his eyes. After enough time had passed in silence that Dean was wondering if his date was nodding off, Castiel spoke again without opening his eyelids. “I do have to wonder how adept your brother is at his profession,” he said.

Unsure what had prompted the criticism, Dean blinked. “He seems to do pretty well,” he said, feeling a bit defensive on Sam’s behalf. “I mean, he doesn’t keep stats of how many relationships succeed or fail under his watch, or if he does, he doesn’t share them with me, but he’s managed to get a pretty healthy practice going. At the rate he’s going, he might even be able to convince Eileen to get him that dog he wants by Christmas.”

“I’m sure that’s all true, and I hope that he does. Pets are a wonderful addition to most households. You might even consider it, once your home is more habitable.” Dean made a face, but Castiel still wasn’t looking. “But what I meant was that we spent the whole night talking with Sam, chatting openly with barely any preparation work on our joined backstory, and yet he didn’t seem at all suspicious that we aren’t actually a couple. He works with couples almost every day, happy and in crisis and in every state in between, but with us sitting in front of him, he couldn’t see any clues at all that we were anything but a devoted pair of men in a committed relationship.”

“Huh.” Dean considered that for a moment, feeling unsettled. “Well, he was probably trying to compensate for missing any signs that I’m into guys as well as chicks. Maybe he was just focused on that, trying not to screw up any more than he thinks he already has.”

“Mmm, perhaps,” Castiel said, yawning around a smile. “Either that, or we were even more convincing than I thought. I admit, I was a little worried, though I didn’t want to say so, for fear of making you even more anxious and turning the whole evening into a giant mess of tangled nerves. You were already so tense.”

Dean made a scoffing noise. “Wasn’t worried at all about you, man,” he said. “You…you were a real pro.” No wonder Sam had bought into the performance, hook, line, and sinker. Even Dean had found himself believing, and he knew damn well that only one person in the car right at that moment was in possession of actual feelings for the other. And it wasn’t Castiel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knob and tube wiring is one of those things that tends to be exaggerated in terms of how bad a discovery it is, but I can tell you that you definitely don't want to find it in your kid's closet, connected to the bare bulb fixture sticking out of the hastily finished wall...which flickers on occasion.


	6. Insulation: Blown or Laid?

_Reasons why I need to get over this stupid_ ~~_crush_ _infatuation_ _pining_~~ _whatever for Castiel Novak:_

  1. _Don’t even know for sure if he likes guys or is just good at pretending for the story_
  2. _Paying him for work, which technically could make it harassment (maybe?)_
  3. _Job will eventually end and he’ll move on_
  4. _He’s obviously not interested in me anyway so I’m being pathetic_



Dean’s pencil ripped through the paper as he finished writing his last reason, and the point broke, leaving small graphite smears around the tear. All right, perhaps he was feeling a little dejected, but at least he was aware of it and trying to do something about it.

The first reason on his list had popped into his head only a couple of days before, and now it was driving him crazy. How had that information never actually come up in conversation? Not that Castiel had been required to disclose his sexual preferences, and it would have been entirely inappropriate and probably legally sketchy for Dean to ask, but when Dean had come out to Sam right in front of him, wouldn’t it have been relevant to the conversation to mention whether they were playing for the same team? A sign of support and solidarity, maybe? Of course, they’d barely known each other at that point, only having met a couple of hours before, but…okay, no, Dean didn’t have any standing at all to feel wronged.

If Castiel was straight, and he was simply a fantastic ally who was confident enough in his own sexuality that he didn’t feel at all weird about pretending to be dating another man, then Dean was being beyond creepy by entertaining these feelings. The problem was that he couldn’t think of a single non-douchey way to ask at this point in the game—not without face-planting firmly in the morass of the second problem. He wasn’t sure where on the sleazebag spectrum coming onto one’s contractor fell, ranging from those guys who hit on waitresses to the bosses who make disgusting comments about their assistants’ asses. Whether he’d be risking only a punch in the face or an actual lawsuit, Dean wasn’t eager to experience either consequence.

The third reason on his list made Dean’s stomach twist for a whole bundle of reasons. Not only would Castiel’s departure signal the end of Dean’s romantic chances with him, but it would be the loss of a friend. No matter whether Castiel said that he wanted to keep spending time with Dean after the job was over; the odds were pretty high that, lacking the shared commonality of Dean’s home renovations, Castiel would quickly come to the conclusion that he and Dean were just too different to maintain a friendship. Seriously, the guy ran marathons for fun. What was Dean but a math nerd with a cool car and a well-honed ability to hide behind a cocky mask?

It didn’t matter, really, because item four was the big kicker. Castiel could be gay, straight, or anything in between; he could be nursing a secret passion for biomimetics or simply find the whole nerdy professor cliche the hottest thing out there. All of that could be true, and it would still be irrelevant, because despite every opportunity for something between them to have begun to blossom, there had been nothing. Castiel clearly just wasn’t into Dean, and Dean was kidding himself by allowing himself to think any different.

_Maybe I should just hit a bar tonight. Find some other lonely sucker for a quick, no-strings hook-up, and try to get Cas out of my system. Being sexually frustrated to this extent can’t be making this any better._ But even if Dean hadn’t felt his stomach turn with an immediate swell of distaste over the idea of diving back into his old one-night stand habit, there was the matter of logistics. How was he supposed to bring somebody back to his place, which, while improving, was still not exactly company-ready? Not only that, but every unfinished area reminded him of Castiel, and those strong and capable hands shaping the home into a place that Dean would probably never be able to look at without thinking about him. 

No, either Dean would have to insist on going back to the other person’s place, which he’d always found sort of awkward, or else find a cheap motel, which sounded even more depressing when he considered it. He immediately disregarded any notions of backseat or bathroom quickies, options he hadn’t explored since his early twenties and hadn’t really enjoyed even then.

He had to do _something,_ though. This situation was getting way out of hand. Dean couldn’t concentrate on anything without being distracted by memories: Castiel’s shirt rolling up when he was crawling around measuring large pieces of drywall, revealing the most mesmerizing little dimples on his lower back, or the way he’d been so tired the night after a particularly grueling work day that he’d flopped onto his back on the floor and groaned in a manner that should _not_ have sent Dean’s mind reeling into filthy places but that so totally did. Dean was a professor; he had responsibilities and duties that deserved his attention, but he was letting them all drop because he couldn’t stop thinking about a set of hip bones sharp enough to cut glass.

_Not to mention the person to whom those hip bones belong, who is so, so much more than just walking sex. I’m going to lose my mind along with my job._

Dean threw his pencil down in frustration, and it bounced and rolled across his desk before dropping to the floor. He watched it fall, too defeated to do anything to stop it. 

“You okay, Dr. D?” said Kevin Tran, who had been sitting unseen against the wall in the hallway outside of Dean’s office, waiting for his mom to finish working. He poked his head through the doorway questioningly. “Long day?”

“You have no idea,” Dean muttered. “Do yourself a favor, kid. Stick with apartment living for as long as you can.”

“Hey, I’ll just be happy when I can finally move out of the dorms,” Kevin said, quirking a rueful smile. “Mom thinks it’s a better learning environment, but the next time some jackass pulls the fire alarm at two in the morning, I’m going to move into one of the study rooms down in the basement of this building. The vending machine food here is probably healthier than what they serve in the cafeteria, anyway.”

“Wise words,” Dean agreed. He grunted at the ache in his muscles as he pushed himself to his feet. They had reached the insulation and drywall stage of the renovation project, and Dean’s body had angry words to say about all the lifting that accompanied that. “If you don’t rat me out to your mom, you can crash on the couch in here instead. Just clean up after yourself, okay?” He’d been a freshman too once, and some of those nightmares still came back to haunt him on occasion.

Kevin’s face looked like he’d won the lottery. “No problem,” he quickly said. “Oh, and by the way, I think you have some drywall in your hair.” 

Brushing at the spot Kevin indicated, Dean swore under his breath as tiny flakes rained down in front of his eyes. Yeah, something had to give, and soon.

The fact that there had been drywall particles in Dean’s hair wasn’t at all surprising, because there were drywall particles literally everywhere. Thank God only a small portion of the patching and hanging work involved the ceiling, because when Castiel had taken his spiral saw to that newly hung sheet to cut a hole for a light fixture, there had been a blizzard’s worth of the stuff in the air.

Mostly, though, it was measure, mark, cut, and tack, over and over. For the larger sheets, a couple of other builders had helped them lift and hold the drywall in position while Castiel used a screw gun to fix them in place. The majority of the labor involved more manageable pieces, though, and so Dean and Castiel had settled into a groove that worked for them. Dean cut the drywall sheets to the correct shapes and held them up while Castiel manned the gun, and then while Castiel marked and made cutouts for any outlets or switches, Dean moved on to start on the next sheet. 

The work wasn’t difficult at all, from a mental perspective, and Dean found that he could lose himself pretty easily to the rhythm of it. Seeing rooms start looking like rooms once again, instead of labyrinths of lumber studs, was giving him the first real visual signs of progress, and he couldn’t wait until they could start painting. 

The repetitive manual labor was more taxing physically than most of what Dean had been doing. He could work up a decent sweat quickly, crawling around with a utility knife and hacking away at the drywall before hoisting it in his arms. The stuff was fairly lightweight, but the effort added up until his upper back was bitching at him and his shirt was sticking unpleasantly to his chest. After the first day of drywall work, Dean decided he was grateful for the “prison shower” of concrete block in the basement. Maybe it was the opposite of spa luxury, but it meant he didn’t have to choose between crawling into bed with sweat drying on his skin, or else trying to cover an unfinished bathroom with plastic so he could take a shower in what looked like the house in _E.T._ after the government got to it. 

From the corner of the office, Dean’s old-fashioned boombox was filling the room with “Misty Mountain Hop.” The familiar beat thrummed in Dean’s veins, easing the stress in his mind, and he gently bobbed his head to it as he made marks alongside the tape measure. Sitting back on his haunches with a grin, he swiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his arm; his thin tee was already saturated with perspiration. Dean was glad that the old furnace was chugging along just fine on its updated circuit, but at that particular moment, it was feeling like July in the house. Probably just all the power tools running, along with the hard work making his blood pump, he figured.

At the edges of his vision, he saw Castiel sitting motionless, so he turned to see what was up. Castiel was kneeling on the floor, saw in hand, and just…watching him. He had a strange, unreadable expression on his face, like he’d forgotten what he was doing.

“You okay, buddy?” Dean said curiously. “Ugh, don’t tell me I’ve got something in my hair. You know, again.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, probably making it stick up in every direction. Oh, well, nothing to be done about it.

“Hmm? Oh, no, not that I can see,” Castiel replied. He sounded distracted, and he was still staring. Then, with a start, he seemed to come back to himself, blinking and shaking his head. “I was…I was just thinking. Rather than cut into the next twelve-foot sheet for the inside of the closet, I think we can probably get the right dimensions out of the remnant of the one from the linen closet. It’s out in the hallway still. I’ll just...let me go get it.” He staggered and almost tripped as he stood up, and Dean snorted.

“Legs falling asleep on you?” he teased. “Seems like the rest of you might be falling asleep, too. Hey, after this cut, how about we take a break, get some caffeine, and decide if we want to finish up early tonight? I’m getting kind of wiped, myself.” Pushing away the tape measure, Dean pulled out the knife and started scoring the cut line.

“So cocky,” Castiel called from down the hall, the smile behind his words obvious in his tone. “Spends most of his time sitting behind a desk, then thinks he’s hot stuff because he’s still got stamina at the end of the day. Consider, Dean, some of us have to go hard all day long.”

Okay, Dean had really, really not needed to hear Castiel talking about “going hard” or talking about his stamina. Jesus. Doing his valiant best to steer his mind toward visions of his junior high gym teacher in her orthopedic knee socks, he quickly drew the knife along the drywall, trying to keep the cut from drifting away from the mark. Abruptly, the blade seemed to sink into the panel quickly, and Dean startled as he temporarily lost his balance. The cut dragged to the left as he did, and as he pulled it back in alarm, it caught the flesh of his left palm. Immediately, blood welled and began to drip, and he hissed and swore as the pain shot through his hand.

“Dean! Shit, let me see.” Castiel was right beside him in a heartbeat, grabbing for Dean’s wrist and pulling it away from where he’d cradled it to his chest. He inhaled sharply through his nose when he saw the depth and size of the wound, and Dean wondered, distantly, if he should be panicking. The painful throbbing was doing a damned good job keeping him present in the moment, though. “I don’t think it’s as bad as it could have been, but we have to get you cleaned up so I can tell if we need to get you to the hospital for stitches.”

“You a doctor, too?” Dean tried to joke, but his words all came out breathless and weird. Castiel just rolled his eyes and helped Dean stumble to the bathroom, where he turned on the faucet and pushed Dean’s hand under the flow of cold water.

“I’m afraid I forgot my leather biting strap, so you’ll just have to squeeze my arm if it’s too bad.” Castiel adjusted the temperature to something less frigid and started rinsing away the blood and the drywall dust covering Dean’s skin. It stung like a bitch, and even if Dean had wanted to appear stoic and manly, he couldn’t help the way the fingers of his other hand convulsed around Castiel’s forearm. Luckily, Castiel didn’t seem to mind too much.

“You know,” Castiel said, “this is a big reason why we don’t typically let the homeowners work with us on their reno jobs. It may be your house, but it’s technically our work site at the moment, and you’re not covered under the company’s insurance.”

“And like I told you the first time you fed me that, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from trying to do work on it after you leave for the day, anyway, so you might as well let me do my thing where you can stop me before I screw anything up. Hah, I guess you weren’t fast enough this time, though,” Dean said. The laugh came out as a gasp as his cut throbbed particularly sharply. “Anyway, it was my knife, my drywall, and my house. Sounds like it should be my own insurance covering it, and my own doctor smacking me upside the head for being a dumbass.”

“Call yourself names again, and it’ll be me doing the smacking, even without a copay,” Castiel murmured. He delicately prodded at the edges of the cut. With the blood washing away from it, Dean could see that there wasn’t actually a terrifically long wound; it looked as though the blade had skipped, creating two separate gashes of about a half-inch each that were connected by a nasty, jagged scratch. When the water was turned off, it immediately began to bleed again. “Clean towels?” Castiel asked, and Dean nodded toward his bedroom, where he had a basket of clean stuff fresh from the laundromat.

They sat side by side on Dean’s camp bed, Castiel holding the towel tightly around Dean’s hand to keep pressure on the cut. It was still stinging pretty badly, and to take his mind off it, Dean cast about for something to talk about. At any other time, just the thought of having Castiel on his bed with him, sweat-damp and so close he could feel his breath on his neck, would have been quite enough to occupy his brain, but every thump of his elevated pulse felt like it was beating in his palm, and he couldn’t focus on anything else. “You know, I’m getting pretty used to this cot,” he mumbled, nodding his head at the mattress beneath them. “Might just keep it permanently, once we’re all done and it’s time to furnish this place.”

Castiel’s eyes were trained on the towel, watching with a tight expression as the blood slowly seeped through the terrycloth. His lips twitched in a strained effort to smile. “It would certainly be a unique aesthetic,” he agreed. “We’ve got the wall sconces you chose being delivered by the end of the week, but if you’d prefer, we could swap those out and go with hanging oil lanterns instead. You could go full lumberjack.”

“I could,” Dean said, nodding. “Then again, my back would probably never forgive me. Not as young as I used to be, you know? I’m already waking up stiff every morning.” This time, the twitch around Castiel’s lips was much more pronounced, and Dean realized belatedly how he’d walked right into that. He hung his head, laughing at himself as he blushed. “You know what I meant.”

“You’re a healthy, virile man, Dean. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t truth to both possible meanings. Good thing this is your non-dominant hand, then.”

Dean nearly choked. “Wow, man, below the belt,” he said, feigning offense to cover up the fact that Castiel’s dirty humor was likely going to cause him to spontaneously combust in the very near future.

“Precisely.” Carefully peeling back the towel from the injury to check on the bleeding, Castiel glanced up at Dean’s face briefly. “But maybe pulling your attention away from your hand and toward the parts of your body below the belt was at least helpful in easing the pain?”

Still flushing hotly, Dean regarded him with exasperation. “Guess I got my answer about whether you’re a real doctor. Pretty sure sex jokes aren’t conventional medical treatment.”

“You mean Doctor Sexy lied to me? I shall never recover.” The bleeding seemed to have slowed to a near stop, and Castiel’s brows knit as he examined it. “Your cut doesn’t cross any of the creases in your palm, and it’s shallower than I thought. We were always told, however, that hand and finger injuries should definitely be checked out by a professional, since it’s important for them to heal correctly. I’d be happy to drive you to the ER, if you choose to go. It would probably be wise to at least get a tetanus shot.”

“Ugh, I hate needles,” Dean groaned. Castiel was looking at him with concern in his eyes, his chapped lower lip caught between his teeth. “You really want me to go though, don’t you?”

Castiel sighed, then nodded. “I would be…unhappy if your hand became infected or healed badly if there was something I could have done to prevent that from happening.”

Reluctantly, Dean pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his hand bumped against his stomach. “Fine,” he said. “But you’re coming into the waiting area to keep me company. Deal?”

“Would those be billable hours?” Castiel mused. He followed Dean down the stairs and toward the door to the backyard where the company van was parked, grabbing his keys from his bag along the way.

“Depends on how many stitches and how many needles. I wasn’t kidding about hating them, so you better be prepared to hold me down. But for real, tell your brother whatever you like,” Dean said with a shrug. “I’ve sort of given up trying to estimate any of this anymore. The final bill’s going to be insane, but I’ve come to terms with that. It’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“I truly hope so,” Castiel said, helping Dean climb into the passenger seat without jarring his injury. 

_CN (3:37 PM): Gabriel says I’m supposed to keep you from any more hands-on help with the renovation._

_CN (3:39 PM): He had some very creative suggestions about how I’m supposed to accomplish that, and I am begging you not to make me put them into action._

“What’s so funny over there? Share with the class; I’m bored.” All signs pointed to the truth of that assertion, as Meg looked about half a cup of strong coffee away from collapsing to the floor and snoring. Her head was propped on a pile of books, dark curls falling loose over her drooping eyes.

“You know, you could at least pretend the lecture wasn’t so bad,” Dean said. “I get that ‘Fundamentals of Metal Forming’ isn’t a wild ride of a topic, but still. I came to work today as the walking wounded so I could deliver it.” He held up his bandaged hand, the reason for which had been the subject of much whispered conjecturing amongst his students. His pride rather appreciated overhearing the guess involving extreme sports, even if the logical extension would be that he was rather bad at them. 

“When I had to take this class as an undergrad, I think I spent half the lecture entertaining myself by counting how many times the professor said the word ‘peening’ and wishing I’d snuck in a flask so I could have turned it into a drinking game,” she said with a yawn. “You know it’s bad when even the frat boys get too bored to make dirty jokes over the term. So spill. What’s got you giggling like a giddy schoolgirl over your phone? Did somebody finally like one of the Instagram glamour shots of your car?”

Dean gave her a dirty look, but his phone buzzed again in his hand before he could come up with a biting response. 

_CN (4:12 PM): I know today’s your heavy class load day, but please try to take it easy. Don’t be a stubborn ass, just take the pain pills if it hurts._

“You’re an ass,” Dean said under his breath. His stomach squirmed with a weird combination of pleasure and sheepishness. Then he yelped in surprise when Meg, huffing in impatience, stuck her hand under his face and yanked the phone from his hand. With the thick bandages around his palm keeping him from closing it all the way, he had no chance of maintaining his grip.

She glanced at the most recent text and snorted. “Who’s ‘CN’? Do certified nurses dispense medical advice by text now, complete with insults? I need a better health care plan.”

“Just give it back,” Dean groaned. He made a pointless swipe at the phone, which Meg held out of reach as she unlocked it. “Give it back, and I’ll let you park in my faculty parking spot tomorrow.” 

“Hah, like you’re not at off-site meetings the next couple of days, anyway. Besides, you can’t think that I really believed your mugger punching story. Pretty sure Kevin was the only one giving you the benefit of the doubt over that.” She scanned the earlier texts, and her smirk dipped. “You hurt your hand doing home repair stuff? Aren’t you literally paying people to do the dangerous stuff for you anyway?”

“More with me than for me, you know?” he said with a shrug, still halfheartedly reaching for the phone.

“I knew you were ogling the eye candy doing the work, but I didn’t know you were going this far to get up close and personal with him.” Meg kept scrolling back, further and further in their text history. “Okay, at least I’m getting a picture as to how that was even allowed to happen. Wow.”

Dean frowned in confusion, giving up on grabbing and trying instead to peer over her shoulder to see which texts she was reading. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I mean that his brother has the right of it, saying you shouldn’t be working with their crew, and your buddy Cas, here, should definitely have been aware of that. But looking at the frankly disturbing amount of unresolved sexual tension in these messages, it’s pretty clear why he chucked policy out the window. Damn,” she drawled.

Ice ran down Dean’s spine, and he swallowed hard. “Is it that obvious?” he asked. He’d honestly thought he’d been doing an amazing job of covering up all the longing, considering the scope of his not-so-little feelings problem. If the whole world could see that he was basically mooning over Castiel, he’d die of humiliation. If Castiel himself was aware of it, and he was just nice enough to ignore it, doing what he could to keep Dean’s feelings from being hurt, even letting him help out with the house so he wouldn’t feel rejected…

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” Meg exclaimed. “I can tell just watching your face that your brain is running top speed in the wrong direction. Jesus, you look like you’re about to puke. What the hell is going on in that head of yours?”

Dean ran his uninjured hand over his face, then scrubbed it through his hair. “You’re telling me you could see it all just at a glance. It’s that noticeable, which is just…it’s proof of what I already knew, I guess. He really doesn’t…I’m an idiot.”

Meg lifted an eyebrow, tapping the phone against her opposite palm. “You can chalk it up to how many hours I’ve spent slaving for you that I could actually parse that incoherent nonsense and get the gist of what you meant. You heard me say there was sexual tension in your texts, and that it explained why Castiel is putting you ahead of common sense and company policy, and from that you inferred that it looks like you’re pining and he’s politely ignoring it. Am I right?”

“Say it again. Didn’t sting enough the first two times,” Dean grumbled.

“Oh, my God. Just stop,” she snapped, rubbing at her eyes with her fingers. “I can’t believe this is my life, giving advice to my boss about his love life. Fuck me. Okay, listen.” Opening her eyes again, she fixed him with an unforgiving stare. “You both are insanely, grossly, obnoxiously, nauseatingly thirsty for each other. A blind man living on the other side of the planet could pick up on the signals you guys are putting out, but you, Dean, are so oblivious that you couldn’t possibly accept the evidence in front of you. And so you’re going to go on yearning and moping, at least until one of you finally ends up chopping off an actual limb with a bandsaw because you’re too focused on the dick you’re not getting to consider things like labor laws. Ugh!”

Meg threw herself back into her chair with such force that it scraped noisily across the floor. Dean blinked, mouth hanging open slightly, completely without any idea of what to say or do in response to any of that. He stood there gaping like a fish, his brain flashing “TILT” like a violently shaken pinball machine, as Meg slammed her books into a pile and shoved the stack into her bag. Throwing it over her shoulder, she stood and stalked toward him. “Here,” she said, grabbing his good hand and slapping his phone into it. “Use this. _Call_ him. Tell him you’re into him. Tell him you want to have metaphorical babies with him and build a white picket fence to raise them inside. Tell him you want to sweep him off his feet, wine and dine him, and run off to Vegas. Just tell him _something_ before you actually explode and ruin all the hard work you’ve put into fixing the house.”

She was almost to the doorway, practically stomping all the way, when Dean’s brain finally came back online. “Wait,” he called. “You really think he has feelings for me, too?” 

“You know, I’m considering getting the flu the week before finals,” she said without pausing. Cringing, Dean decided to keep his mouth shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Meg might be one of my favorite characters to write.
> 
> Please don't get distracted while cutting drywall. At the very least, wear protective gloves.


	7. Finishing the Walls: Just Get Plastered

As Dean packed up his things for the day, and for the entire drive home, he kept replaying Meg’s words in his head. Was it possible? Could he somehow have completely missed Castiel flirting with him in a way that went beyond his normal teasing or that was related to their whole fake relationship stratagem? Sure, some of their kidding around got fairly far into some pretty irreverent territory, but that was sort of who Castiel was; he’d been intentionally working to make Dean blush at every opportunity since their first conversation. How was Dean supposed to tell if that was still the case, or if, for example, the comments about Dean needing a spanking if he didn’t stop moving the nail gun were more than just playful scolding?

(Not that Dean hadn’t fired right back with a “Yes, Sir,” of his own. Now he really, really wished he hadn’t chickened out and fled the room immediately after that, afraid that his blush would give him away, without first gauging Castiel’s reaction.)

Dammit. The big sticking point, before there was any point even in beginning to reexamine every single interaction that had happened between the two of them, was that he still didn’t even know for certain whether or not Castiel was sexually or romantically into men. Dean’s instincts at this point said “probably,” but that was a pretty crucial bit of uncertainty, in light of everything else. Without certainty there, there was no way to proceed.

He couldn’t just come out and ask. But maybe he could poke around with a little more intent? God, this felt like high school again, back when trying to figure out who it would be a safe target for flirtation was a terrifying ordeal, and a wrong guess could lead to your life becoming a living hell from that day forward. This time, instead of the stakes involving threats of being shoved into lockers, they merely involved the shattering of Dean’s heart. Great. Did he really, absolutely need to know the truth? Denial felt kind of comfortable, after all… 

No. No, it didn’t. If there was the slightest chance that all those reasons he’d given himself about why he needed to get over his feelings and move on were nothing but lies born out of his own obtuseness, then he needed to take that chance. It would be awkward as hell, but it had to happen. No chickening out this time.

Yep, he was totally going to chicken out, though.

By the time he was clambering out of the driver’s seat—harder to do with an out-of-commission left hand than he had anticipated before getting hurt—and climbing the porch steps, he’d changed his mind a dozen times about what he was going to do or whether to do anything at all. As he reached for the doorknob, clumsily trying to support his messenger bag under his left arm, the door was suddenly opened from the other side.

“I heard you pulling in, and I thought you could use a hand,” Castiel said with a wink and a grin. “And I swear, I was not making a hand joke there, or at least not intentionally.”

“Oh, sure, rub it in, why don’t you?” Dean retorted, and just that quickly, they slid back into their familiar banter. Like this, it was almost easy to forget the worries and the stress over any feelings that might or might not be unrequited. Almost, but not quite. When Castiel quickly grabbed the bag before it could slip from under Dean’s arm and fall, and his hand brushed against Dean’s hip in doing so, part of Dean almost felt like crying at the inadvertent contact, demanding that he reciprocate the touch. When Castiel asked, rather sternly, whether Dean had taken his evening antibiotic yet, Dean wanted to melt under the thought of how Castiel might care for him in other ways. Meg was right; if Dean didn’t speak up, this tension was going to end in brains spattering against the damn ceiling. 

“Thankfully, you didn’t actually get much blood on the drywall,” Castiel was reassuring him now, after he’d made sure Dean was settled in a folding chair situated well away from the repair action happening in the living room. That crooked smile aimed Dean’s way was going to be the death of him. “Good that you had your priorities in order after all. Flesh can be stitched, but bloodstained drywall stays with you forever.”

“I dunno,” said Dean, wishing with all his heart that he could have that kind of promise for something other than construction materials. “Maybe if I’d managed to really get a good, gruesome spray, I could have left a lovely gift for the next owners. Like that…did we ever decide what that skeleton was?”

“Gad thinks possum,” Castiel replied. “He’s apparently quite familiar, though I chose not to ask why. Oh, and speaking of Gad, he sent along a present for you today.” He grabbed his work bag and hauled out a small plastic container that looked like part of a Tupperware line from the seventies.

“Do I even want to know what this is?” Dean asked warily, opening the lid and immediately reeling back as a pungent scent practically dissolved the hairs in his nose. “Dude, no. Whatever it was, it went bad like a month ago.” 

Castiel snickered. “It’s not leftovers, Dean. He doesn’t talk about it much, but Gad comes from a very large family with a lot of beliefs and traditions that are rather, well, let’s say ‘ancient.’ Gad’s a nickname, short for the name of some apocryphal angel. He and I have that in common, so we’ve bonded. Anyway, I have no idea what’s actually in…that…but he says to put it on your wound, and I personally would put good money on it working.”

“Working to do what, though?” Dean took another sniff. It was no less potent than the first. “Is it even legal?”

Smirking, Castiel leaned closer. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he murmured into Dean’s ear. _Unfair!_ screeched Dean’s brain, as he was forced to try concealing a whimper inside a coughing fit. Castiel didn’t seem to notice, as he was too busy laughing at his own joke. “I’m sure it’s not precisely illegal, anyway. Just a touch unorthodox. You should see what he uses for headaches.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass,” Dean said, recapping the container and setting it aside for later, when it was time to change the bandages. Castiel turned back toward the work he’d been doing before Dean arrived, mudding and taping the seams in the drywall to make it a smooth surface. It looked as though he was fairly focused on the job, and had Dean had his own task to accomplish, the silence between them might have been a comfortable one. Since Dean was, instead, basically left to stew in his own anxiety, there was no stopping himself when his mouth decided to open of its own accord.

“So, the dinner with Sam and Eileen,” he blurted. 

“Hmmm?” Castiel glanced over his shoulder without stopping the steady feathering movements of his drywall knife.

“Well, I was talking to him this afternoon, and he, uh, was saying he had a really good time hanging out with you.” Okay, so apparently Dean was going to kick this off with complete fabrications of facts. Made sense. It had been working so damn well as a strategy in every other aspect of his life, so why not?

“Ah. You may tell him that the feeling is entirely mutual,” Castiel said, his words a pleased rumble of contentment.

“Yeah, hah, I will. He actually teased me some, talking about how proud he was that I’d finally broken my streak of nightmare dates. Kind of funny, right? You and me, putting on that act, and it turned out better than most of my real dates lately.” Dean was watching Castiel closely, searching for any subtle reactions, but the way he had turned back to examine the work he was doing made that difficult.

“Perhaps not so strange,” Castiel said. “On a real date, as you put it, your goal is a connection with your partner, to please and impress them. We, on the other hand, were on the same page, trying to please and impress a third party. There wasn’t any dancing around awkward truths between the two of us, since neither of us was trying to hide our flaws from each other.”

Huh. “So what you’re saying is that the date went well because even though we were lying to Sam, we were being honest with each other?” It was a good theory; it wasn’t Castiel’s fault that the major flaw in it, in which Dean had been keeping one big honking secret to himself, was invisible to him.

“It certainly could have been one factor.” After a moment of quiet while he scooped and spread some more of the mudding compound, Castiel let out an amused huff. “As evidence, I’ll offer one of my recent dating fiascos. I thought I was going to dinner with April, the kind-hearted social worker. In fact, as I learned later that night, I was really on a date with April, the disturbingly persistent zealot who was determined to save my soul by pulling me into the folds of her church by any means necessary. Funny how none of that had come up in our initial conversations.” 

“Yee-ouch,” Dean said, chuckling sympathetically. He tried not to freak out prematurely that the first story Castiel had offered had involved dating a woman. He was bisexual himself, for fuck’s sake; he knew better. “I mean, there’s lying and then there’s lying. That one’s pretty far past choosing not to be strictly accurate about your weight or whatever on your driver’s license, or even your Grindr profile.” _There, just toss that reference out there. See if he bites._

“Dean Winchester, are you saying that you lied to a government organization about your weight?” Castiel gasped in feigned shock, pointing toward him with the knife. “That’s disgraceful. Also, more than a little unwarranted. You can’t possibly have had any complaints from former partners about your shape.” 

_Dammit._ “Hey, everybody’s got something they’re a little self-conscious about,” Dean said. At that very moment, for instance, Dean was having an extremely difficult time trying not to suck in his stomach under the blatant scrutiny he was now receiving. Castiel was looking him up and down with the same intensity he gave to his projects, and it was unnerving.

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Castiel finally said, gaze slowly crawling back up toward his face. “Whoever made you think you have anything at all be embarrassed about has a good deal to answer for.”

Even Dean’s talent for denial was having trouble finding a way to turn this into something strictly platonic. His mouth felt unbearably dry, and he licked his lips nervously. Castiel’s eyes instantly zeroed in on his mouth, tracking the movement. Neither of them breathed for a moment that seemed to stretch interminably. 

And then, just as Dean was beginning to consider the possible ramifications of just grabbing Castiel’s shirt (with his good hand, anyway) and finding a non-plastery wall into which he could slam him, Santana began singing “Oye Como Va” at top volume.

Castiel, uttering a string of profanity that Dean honestly found damn impressive, spun around and made a rough grab for his phone, which sat on a pile of boxes nearby. “Gabriel, what could you possibly have to say that I want to hear right now?” he snapped into the speaker the moment he answered, without even a hello. His face was positively thunderous to start, but it somehow managed to grow even more intimidatingly fierce as he listened to whatever was being said. _Glad that’s not aimed at me,_ Dean thought. On the heels of that, he changed his mind; Castiel in full righteous fury was apparently striking all kinds of right notes in Dean’s psyche and beginning to make things a bit uncomfortable for him in the pants region.

“I will not have this conversation with you again,” Castiel growled. “This is massively inappropriate for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that I am _working,_ Gabriel. I am attempting to perform the tasks for which I was hired. Please do not call again, and no, we will _not_ continue this conversation when I see you in person.” He jabbed at the screen to end the call, then nearly threw the phone toward his bag.

“Um,” Dean started, eyeing Castiel with trepidation. “That sounded like a fun convo. I’m not really up for swinging a shovel right now, what with the bum hand and all, so if you’re gonna need help with a body, you might want to put the fratricide on hold until I’m healed up more.”

“I suppose I can let him live another day,” Castiel said grudgingly. He was still glaring at the phone, though, as though it had personally offended him by permitting the call to come through.

“Want to talk about it?” Dean suggested. Castiel whirled around, eyes still fiery, and Dean shrank back with his hands lifted. “Or not,” he said. “Hell, I know what that’s like. You don’t want to share, I won’t push. God knows I’ve got shit I don’t feel like airing.”

Sighing deeply, Castiel let his head fall backward on his neck, face toward the ceiling. “Remember when you told me how irritating you find it when your brother insists on giving advice where none is needed or desired, refusing to stop even when you’ve asked him to?” he said. “Well, I promise you, my brother could definitely give yours a run for his money. At least your brother is kind about his interference. Gabriel actually seems to enjoy it when he can push me to my breaking point.”

“Brothers,” Dean said, shaking his head in fervent commiseration. “Let’s never let yours meet mine. Deal?”

Gratifyingly, the wisecrack made Castiel snort, his scowl relaxing somewhat. “Deal. Truthfully, I would prefer to keep Gabriel as far as possible from my personal life, in all aspects. Unfortunately, I’ve never figured out an effective way to manage it.”

Dean smirked. “So what was it he wanted? Ponzi scheme? Prison break?”

Castiel’s lips pinched closed in reluctance, but before Dean could offer to back down again, he shook his head and sighed again. “Love life, actually,” he said, sinking back to the floor and picking up the drywall knife he’d dropped when he’d taken the call. “Never let it be said that he lacks a sense of timing. As I said, Gabriel is just as determined to meddle as your brother, and he has been trying for ages to distract himself from his own relationship woes by attempting to find partners for me. Hook-ups, despite the fact that I’ve told him I neither need nor want his help. He believes I’m too uptight.”

Dean grunted in disbelief. “Where’s he getting that?”

“Probably because I’m not interested in sleeping with every pretty boy or girl who happens to cross my path in a given day,” Castiel muttered. “A lack of interest is not the same thing as difficulty or need of assistance. What I need is for him to stay out of things that do not concern him. I am doing quite well on my own.” 

All at once, the pleasurable heat that had been coiling in Dean’s core from the moment Castiel had directed that first bit of praise toward him, and which had ignited into a maelstrom with the reference to “pretty boys,” was extinguished. _Oh,_ he thought, and he was surprised that he actually felt surprised. “Of course you are,” he replied, trying not to sound like he’d been punched. “None of his business if you’re not, uh, looking for…that.” 

“Whether I was looking for assistance or not, I wouldn’t be looking for _his_ assistance,” Castiel said, gesturing with the knife for emphasis without turning around. “It may sound juvenile to say this, but the last thing I’d want is for him to be right. He’d be absolutely insufferable.”

Perhaps Dean should have found it a greater consolation than he did, being let down so gently yet clearly. “I totally get that,” he responded, barely hearing his own words. “Hey, I’m going to get myself a beer. You…uh, you probably don’t want one. Because you’re working. Which…yeah.” He was rambling, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t as though Castiel didn’t know the reason for it, or that he wouldn’t be sensitive about that, too.

Dean barely made it the twenty feet into the kitchen before his tenuous hold on his composure cracked. He leaned over the counter, bracing himself on his hands; the pressure on his cut made it sting sharply, but Dean just leaned into the pain, embracing it with a perverse satisfaction. His breath felt jagged in his throat, and his head pounded.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Castiel called from the living room, as though Dean wasn’t falling to pieces on the other side of the wall. “I might have been tempted to take you up on that drink, after that phone call. But as it happens, _somebody_ gave me a rather vivid demonstration last night of the sort of catastrophe that can happen to people when they try to handle sharp objects without being fully alert. You’ll just have to appreciate it for me.”

“Sure thing,” Dean managed to reply. He was probably too quiet for Castiel to be able to hear him, but he was doing his best to simply hang on. To hell with the damn beer. He needed something a lot stronger than that. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet stocked the cupboard he’d already earmarked to become a liquor cabinet. The empty space from which he’d removed the wooden door, planning to replace it with a fancy glass one, seemed to mock him with its barrenness.

“Until recently, I always thought Gabriel behaved this way as some sort of misplaced older brother obligation. You’re the older brother in your family, though, and the dynamic is reversed, so now I’m reexamining my theory,” said Castiel. “Maybe it’s a hair thing? There is a certain similarity, there…”

“Uh-huh.” He could always leave. _Not like there’s really any reason to hang around and watch Cas work. Not when I’m useless like this. He’d probably appreciate it, so he could stop trying to make conversation and get back to why he’s really here._

“You know, I believe one damn beer won’t hurt a thing. I’m so aggravated right now that I’m more likely to make stupid mistakes if I don’t take a break than if I try to push through. At the rate I’m going, I’m going to put this knife right through the damn drywall, and then I’ll have to patch those holes, too.” There was a clunking noise, which was probably the drywall knife being tossed to the ground, and then Castiel was striding into the kitchen before Dean even had a chance to pull himself together and slap on a fake smile. Castiel paused halfway through the doorway, tilting his head with a concerned frown. “Dean?”

“Oh, uh, hang on,” Dean said, hastily turning his head away and scrubbing at his face with his unbandaged hand. Pulling himself away from the counter sent another violent throb through his hand, and he reflexively clutched at it. “I’ll get it for you, just—”

“Dean, wait,” Castiel interrupted, quickly stepping toward him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He firmly turned Dean to face him, taking his injured hand in his own. “Let me see, did you hurt it again? You were supposed to be resting it.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean said, pulling away more roughly than he really meant to. He couldn’t handle the gentleness, not now. Not when he was struggling to build back up the protective walls that he should never have let crumble in the first place. Those blue eyes, wide with surprise and hurt, hovered at the edge of Dean’s line of sight, but he couldn’t even bring himself to meet them.

“No it’s not fine. Look, you’ve bled through the bandages. What were you doing?” Castiel reached out as though to take hold of Dean’s wrist once more, but Dean flinched away without conscious thought. Castiel froze, then let his hand fall slowly. “Dean, what is going on?”

“Come on, man,” Dean said, suddenly too tired to pretend any longer. “You’ve got to give me a little more time to adjust than that. I swear, next time you see me, it’ll be like none of this happened, and we can just keep on the way we were, but tonight…you’ve got to give me tonight to feel like shit.” He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on the ground between them, ever the coward. 

Castiel made a frustrated noise. “Why the hell would I want you to feel like shit? You’re not making any sense. Adjust to what, your injury? I won’t touch it if it’s hurting, but Dean, please, let me look.”

“It’s not about my damn hand, Castiel. It’s about me getting my stupid hopes up. God, I’m not trying to turn this into a dramatic scene, but you’re not letting me just lick my wounds in private, so I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do!” His voice cracked, adding to the humiliation that was burning through him. 

“Dean, I have the feeling that we are having two very different conversations right now. Could we please stop, take a step back, and try this again? I’m getting worried.” Speaking slowly, carefully, and in a voice that sounded strained to its limits, Castiel ducked his head, trying to catch Dean’s eyes. “You’re suddenly very upset, and I don’t know why.”

“Really? You don’t…” Dean bit off the rest of his sentence, looking away. He must have been giving Castiel too much credit for being sensitive to his feelings. It was looking more like he just hadn’t bothered to notice there were any feelings to worry over. Better and better.

“Not really, no,” Castiel said. “But I’m getting the impression that it was something I said or did. You say you had gotten your hopes up. Tell me what you meant. What hopes?”

He couldn’t really be expecting Dean to recap the whole rejection, could he? What, did he want to make sure Dean was crystal clear on the fact that nothing was going to happen between them? This was a cruel joke. “Cas, why are you doing this?” Dean asked. 

“Because I’m not privy to your thoughts! Please, Dean. Just…please.”

If Dean hadn’t glanced up for a fraction of a second when Castiel paused, sounding like his voice had caught in his throat, before making his last plea, he could have remained stubbornly silent. But he did look up, and he found himself trapped by the look of raw desperation on Castiel’s face, so vulnerable it was painful to witness. Dean had no clue what was behind that look, and he was in no emotional state to try to parse it out, but he didn’t stand a chance against it.

“Somehow I managed to get it in my head that some of what I’ve been feeling toward you, you might feel about me, too,” he said in a near whisper. “For a long time, I didn’t believe it, but something made me think…but I was wrong. It’s okay, I get it. You don’t have to—”

“Please shut up.” 

Dean blinked as Castiel took a large step forward to abruptly place himself deep inside Dean’s personal space. The first thought to flash through his brain was one of mild surprise: _Shit, looks like I was wrong about Cas not being the kind of guy to throw punches over this crap._ There wasn’t enough time after the thought had occurred for Dean to process it, because then Castiel’s fists were gripping the front of his shirt harshly. There were no punches being thrown, though. Dean didn’t even have enough time to close his mouth fully before Castiel’s mouth went crashing into it.

And then there was not much room left for thinking at all.

As far as first kisses went, this one was definitely on the rougher end of the spectrum. Every bit of the frustration, confusion, aggravation, and impatience of the evening was poured into it, and as soon as Dean realized exactly what was happening, if not why, he did his best to give as good as he was getting. That was no easy feat, though, because Castiel was an all-consuming frenzy, dedicated to covering every inch of Dean’s skin he could reach with wet, trailing, _biting_ kisses. 

Caught off-guard as he had been, Dean nearly forgot to breathe. The shivery sensation of long fingers threading through his hair, taking hold there with a strong grip and using it to pull his head into a more comfortable angle of connection, had him drawing in a sharp gasp of air, which had the effect of making him even dizzier as he breathed in the scent of Castiel. This close, he could smell the sandalwood from the hair products Castiel used, along with the plaster and sawdust that never quite washed out of his work clothes. The hot breaths against Dean’s neck suggested peppermint candy, and beneath it all lay the warm, slightly spicy scent that Dean had never been able to identify but had come to associate with the man in his arms.

“Cannot believe you,” Castiel groaned, breaking away briefly for oxygen before diving right back into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Stubborn, stupid…”

“Talk dirty to me some more,” Dean joked hoarsely, completely bewildered but more than willing to roll with it.

Castiel slid his hand from Dean’s scalp downward to cradle his jaw, bringing his other hand up to mirror it on the opposite side. “You really want me to?” he said in a voice deeper and rougher than Dean had ever heard him use. “You want me to describe to you the things I’ve been imagining doing to you since the very first night we met? How the way you got all flustered made me want to put that blush back in your cheeks just so that I could taste the heat of it on my tongue? How every time I’ve been forced to watch you crawl on your knees as you worked, I wanted nothing more than to get my hands all over that gorgeous ass, to rip away those old jeans and make you scream yourself hoarse? How I haven’t been able to fucking _sleep_ since witnessing how you hold your pencil between your lips when you’re concentrating? Those lips, Dean. They’ve been the subject of so many, many fantasies, as I’ve considered all the ways I want to—” He didn’t get to finish that sentence, what with Dean lunging forward to capture his lips again.

His own arms had wrapped themselves around Castiel’s back at some point. The muscles there were straining and flexing under his fingertips, as there was hardly a moment in which Castiel wasn’t in motion. He couldn’t seem to decide which parts of Dean he wanted to touch most, running his hands over his shoulders and along his neck before sliding forward to explore his chest. When they slipped lower to grab firmly at his ass, Dean’s throat seized on the inhale, breaking on an involuntary high-pitched note. Castiel chuckled, a filthy sound, against the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, not going to—to argue with any of that,” Dean struggled to say. “Gotta tell you though, man. You’ve either got the world’s worst game or the best poker face I’ve ever seen.”

Castiel snorted, and Dean jumped a little as the sensation tickled against his skin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What part of any of this was I hiding when I managed to work sexual innuendo into every other conversation while we worked? Or when I could barely rip my eyes off you when you perspired your way through those thin band shirts, like a slow-motion wet tee-shirt contest? Dean, I obviously only agreed to go along with your ridiculous, poorly thought-out fake dating scheme so that I could have the chance to spend more time with you. I had my _hand_ on your _thigh,_ for God’s sake.”

There was too much packed in there to grasp in one go, so Dean latched onto the easiest part. “Can hardly call it _my_ plan, when you did as much planning as I did.” That fact stood out much more starkly in hindsight, and Dean wondered why he hadn’t questioned it more in the first place. “And it wasn’t so ridiculous after all. It actually worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes, well, I clearly overestimated your brother’s ability to see through an act. Of course, we were only partly acting. Your brother undoubtedly picked up on the brewing attraction between the two of us, which was all the evidence he needed to buy the whole story.”

“Jesus Christ, am I the only one in the world who didn’t see it?” A shift of hips as Castiel made himself more comfortable in the circle of Dean’s arms had them both groaning at the unexpected friction between body parts previously left neglected. 

“I assumed you _did,”_ Castiel sighed. “Hence the name-calling. I thought you knew, but that for some reason you’d decided not to acknowledge it or make a move. And since you are _terrible_ at hiding your own feelings, I knew it wasn’t that you were uninterested. You can imagine my frustration.” In illustration, he slipped his hands under the hem of Dean’s shirt in the back and raked his nails along the flesh. At the same time, he applied his teeth to the thick muscle along the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder. 

“Hah,” Dean exhaled forcefully, his knees threatening to give out and send him to the floor. He let himself fall back to lean against the edge of the counter instead, bringing Castiel along with him. Obviously on board with the decision, Castiel used the forward momentum to grind his hips into Dean once more, with the counter providing additional resistance. “Shit. Shit, yes. Fuck, yes, I was interested. But before tonight, I didn’t even know for certain that you were into dudes.”

Castiel, who had been engaged in sucking at the bite mark he’d made and turning it into what would probably be a huge mouth-shaped bruise, pulled back to give Dean a look of withering scorn. “Are you seriously accusing me of being too subtle about that? When we traded our worst sex stories—which, by the way and in case you were unaware, is a pretty damn intimate thing to share with a ‘friend’—I told you mine was with a man named Uriel.”

“How was I supposed to know Uriel is a dude’s name? Like, Uri- _elle?_ It sounds like a girl!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You mean like Casti- _elle?”_ he said, mimicking the emphasis Dean had put on the last syllable. 

“You hang with a weird crowd, Cas,” Dean grumbled. “Don’t you know anyone named Steve or Eric or George?” He decided he’d gone too long without having his lips on Castiel, and he set about remedying that problem.

“Oh, my God, Dean,” Castiel hissed, gripping him by the back of his head to hold his mouth in place at his collarbone. “Keep doing that. Shit, I’m going to have to avoid Gabe tomorrow, but I’m just fine with that.”

Smirking, Dean leaned back onto the counter a little further so that he could wrap one of his legs around the back of Castiel’s, urging him closer. “Yeah, and why’s that?” he murmured, tasting the salt on Castiel’s skin.

“Why do you think?” Castiel growled, hips rocking forward. “You think _he_ didn’t know? You think he didn’t take one look at me when I came back to the office after that first night and immediately suspect something was up? Why do you think I told you he wasn’t to know about the story we told Sam? Because he’d already been at me incessantly to find my way into your pants, and that would have been like throwing gunpowder on a fire. Oh, fuck, your _mouth,_ Dean,” he added as Dean dragged parted lips up the side of his throat.

“Not opposed,” Dean said, grinning as he imagined himself on his knees, helpless as Castiel clutched at his head and thrust deep into the back of his throat. Apparently sharing the same mental picture, Castiel momentarily lost the rhythm of his rolling hips, and the hands under Dean’s shirt that were currently tracing his shoulder blades reflexively dug into muscle with fingertips.

“You will be the death of me,” Castiel stated breathlessly. He freed one hand from its confines in order to pull Dean’s mouth back to his, then moved the other hand to Dean’s balancing leg, encouraging him to lift it so that both legs could wrap around him. Eager to cooperate, Dean tried to scoot himself backward further onto the counter.

“Shit!” he yelped, though in an entirely different manner from the way he’d been cursing just before. In his lust-filled haze, he’d forgotten that one of his hands was temporarily out of commission, and he’d tried to use both palms to lift himself up. Agony pierced the bubble of desire, and he bit his lip against the pain.

“Oh, damn it, your hand,” Castiel said, equally taken out of the moment by his concern. Dropping Dean’s legs, Castiel grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand forward to gaze at it. “We need to take off these bandages. I wonder whether you’ve torn open the stitches.” Ignoring any protest, he turned Dean around bodily to face the nearby sink.

“Okay, but if I didn’t, can we get back to what we were doing?” Dean asked lamely. The shock of the pain had partly diminished his physical arousal, but his head was still very much in the game.

Castiel glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he continued to delicately unwrap the wound. “We’ll see,” he said, grinning widely. “But even if we have to drive back to the ER for more stitches, I’m not planning to back away from you again. I’ve never been one to allow business to go unfinished, and we have only just begun.”

Even as he winced at the thought of more needles, Dean couldn’t deny the delicious thrill that ran through him at that promise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Castiel, dropping every hint in the book in increasingly shameless ways, completely unaware that they're all flying right over Dean's head.


	8. Carpentry So Fine, Just Had to Nail It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut! If it's not your thing, you can stop this chapter at "Fuck the baseboards" and not miss any plot points.

_CN (10:29 AM): A word of advice: when one’s brother is a sadist, it is unwise to allow him to know when one is suffering from hangover_

_Dean (10:32 AM): You can’t be that hungover if you can still text like you’re writing poetry_

_Dean (10:33 AM): or a fortune cookie_

_CN (10:35 AM): Please don’t mention food_

Dean smirked at his phone screen. Thank God he had no lectures to give this morning, because he was still nursing the remnants of his own headache and nausea. He wasn’t usually inclined toward heavy drinking during the work week, but by the time they’d managed to get his hand cleaned up and had reassured themselves that his stitches were still intact, and they’d applied Gad’s witchy potion (“I think potions are meant to be drunk, Dean.” “Well, I ain’t putting this in my mouth!”) and gotten him bandaged back up, the persistent throbbing had put a major damper on the sexy momentum from before. They’d kissed some more, lazy and giddy, revelling in the novelty of it, and then they’d finally gotten around to the beer that Dean had gone to retrieve at the start of the evening. One drink had led to another as they poured out all the things they’d wanted to tell each other for weeks, until when they tried to call it quits for the evening, they discovered that neither of them were able to stand up without stumbling.

They’d wound up sleeping together, but only in the PG-rated sense. Dean’s neck was still stiff from the couch, but there had been no way he was going to try straining the crappy camp bed’s limits under the weight of two grown men. Despite the awkward positioning, though, Dean slept more deeply than he had in a long time, finally rousing at the feeling of a calloused hand cupping his cheek and a stubbly kiss landing on his brow. Castiel had needed to wake earlier than Dean, but he hadn’t wanted to leave Dean to wake alone. He’d also had coffee for Dean, though he’d confessed that brewing the pot had been partially motivated by his own dependency on getting an artificial jumpstart.

_CN (10:39 AM): He sent me to check on a demolition site_

_CN (10:40 AM): There were jackhammers_

_Dean (10:42 AM): Ouch. Glad I get to sit here all by myself in this nice quiet office with its coffee maker and comfy chair._

_CN (10:47 AM): I rather hate you right now_

Imagining Castiel’s grumpy face as he typed that message, Dean laughed out loud this time. As much as he loved seeing Castiel’s gummy smiles and the way he would throw back his head and let his laughter take over his entire body when he found something particularly amusing, Dean was equally entertained by the strong resemblance between Castiel in a testy mood and a certain internet-famous sullen feline.

“Keep it down in there,” came another irritation-filled voice from across the hall, despite the fact that he hadn’t been laughing all that loudly. “Some of us are trying to concentrate.”

“Close your door then,” Dean called back, unconcerned. A moment later, he heard footsteps approaching, and then a scowling head was poking through his doorway.

“Too late,” Meg said. “Concentration broken, thank you very much. Got any sugar in here? Preferably of the dark chocolate variety?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You think I haven’t mastered basic care and feeding of graduate assistants by now?” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a few fun-sized candy bars. He tossed them one at a time at her, rapid-fire, giving an approving nod when she snagged every one of them neatly out of the air. “Nicely done, Willie Mays.”

She flashed him her dimples as she unwrapped the first piece. Popping it in her mouth, she gave an indecent moan of satisfaction. “This damn IRB application. Do undergraduates really have to count as human subjects, anyway?”

“You do have my sympathy, but you chose to focus on human-robot collaboration, and the higher-ups get pretty touchy about the whole ‘informed consent’ thing. Always have to keep them reassured that everybody was safe and no robots were likely to turn sentient and go all Terminator on their future donor alumni.”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “But in the meantime, I’m going cross-eyed from staring at the screen. Hell, my eyes are so blurry right now that I almost couldn’t see the massive hickey on your neck, there, Professor.” She pointedly bit into another piece of chocolate as she levelled a flat look at him.

Ah, shit. His collar hadn’t been quite high enough to cover it, after all. “I read someplace that you’re supposed to try hanging a piece of newsprint by your monitor. Take a moment to pull your eyes away from the screen and focus on that every once in a while. Gotta take care of your eyes now or you’ll wind up in bifocals before you’re forty.”

“There are those lovely misdirection skills of yours, put to really ineffectual use once again,” she said with sarcastic sweetness. “Who was gnawing on you? If you say anyone other than your contractor friend, I’m going to start putting salt in your coffee.”

“If I do say that it was him, is there any chance at all that you’ll let it drop?” He grimaced, knowing full well the answer to that question.

“Holy shit, he actually did it!” Meg exclaimed, eyes wide and sparkling. She stepped back toward the door and poked her head out into the hallway. “Hey, Ruby! Get down here!”

“No, Meg, stop,” Dean protested, but it was too late. A second graduate assistant sauntered into the room, looking tired but curious.

“Better be important, I have like forty more annotations to grade by three this afternoon,” Ruby said, rubbing at the base of her skull.

“Winchester finally leathered up and got some,” Meg said proudly as she gestured toward Dean’s neck.

“What, with Bob the Builder?” Ruby gasped, looking like Christmas had come early. She practically jumped across the small office to get a better look.

“Are you kidding me? Meg, who else knows about Cas?” Dean said, turning bright red as he batted Ruby’s hands away from his shirt collar. “Knock it off, Ruby, or I’ll tell Doctor MacLeod that you—”

“God, yes! Go tell Rowena,” Ruby said over her shoulder to Meg. “She’s going to flip when she finds out.”

Dean groaned, slapping a hand over his face. “Okay, everybody out, right now. Out, or I’ll schedule extra undergrad study sessions for you both to lead every Friday afternoon for the next two months.”

Ruby was scooting out the door before he finished his threat. Meg smiled at him as she made her way into the hallway more slowly. It was a far less cheeky smile, though, than the one she’d been wearing earlier. “You do know we’re actually happy for you, right? We tease, but we do it from a place of love. Or something. Don’t let it go to your head.” 

Of course he knew that. Rather than admitting so with words, he silently flipped her off, which just made her laugh as she closed the door behind herself. It was a weird dynamic that they shared, but it worked well for them. 

Picking up his phone once more, Dean returned to the conversation from which he’d been pulled. In the chaos, he’d missed the buzz of a couple more texts, apparently. 

_CN (10:50 AM): That wasn’t serious, by the way. I could never actually hate you._

_CN (10:52 AM): I hope you didn’t take me at my word? I have been told I’m rather an asshole when I’m tired._

Grinning stupidly once more, Dean replied, _Course I didn’t. Also, same._

A moment later, his phone buzzed again with a response.

_CN (11:14 AM): Oh thank God. Also, I know._ 😘

By noon, Dean’s hangover had almost completely dissipated, just in time for lunch with Sam. Unfortunately, it was Sam’s turn to pick the place, which meant that the two of them were crammed around a tiny wooden table at some trendy little “artisan pub,” whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Half the stuff on the menu was vegan or gluten-free, but obviously that wasn’t doing a thing to hurt the popularity of the place; every square foot of the place was packed. Good thing his headache was gone, or this would have been a disaster.

“Oh, they’ve added chili as a seasonal soup,” Sam said happily, pointing at the specials written on a decorative chalkboard on the wall. “Soup would be easier to eat with one hand than a sandwich, too. I still can’t believe you maimed yourself and didn’t even bother to call me.”

“I’m fine, Sammy. Also, we’ve been over this. Chili’s stew, not soup,” Dean argued. “And there’s nothing ‘seasonal’ about mango chili. I don’t even know in what universe those two things go together. Is there a burger on this menu that involved a cow at one point in time?”

Pursing his lips in an epic bitchface, Sam pointed at the sandwich section of the menu. “You should consider broadening your horizons a bit, you know. I bet Cas would enjoy a place like this, as someone working in his field.”

“Cas likes greasy bacon cheeseburgers with jalapenos,” Dean retorted, then regretted it when it registered fully that he was still supposedly dating a gym rat. “I mean, sometimes. Man can’t live by salads alone, he says. Plus, uh, protein.”

Sam’s pinched expression relaxed. “Yeah, okay,” he said as warmth filled his eyes once more. “I guess that’s what I should have pieced together from the beginning. You guys work well because you balance each other out, not because you started out with so much in common. I see that every day, but I’ve just never seen you date so far outside of your wheelhouse before, so it caught me off-guard.”

“I guess.” Sam might have the details wrong, but the gist was probably still accurate. Castiel was far from the kind of people Dean had dated or slept with in the past—mostly other college folks, people he met professionally, or else the kind of men and women who were on the prowl for a good time with no strings attached. With Castiel, he wanted all the strings, and he was pretty sure that Castiel did, too.

At least, he was mostly sure. Maybe seventy-five percent. Okay, they hadn’t really covered that part, had they?

Looking back on the evening, now that he was no longer swimming in the heady tangle of it all, he realized that the only resolution he and Castiel had actually reached out loud was related to their physical attraction to each other. And while that was awesome and something he was completely on board with pursuing, it was miles away from the _only_ thing he wanted. Fuck, what if that was all Castiel wanted from him?

Sam was blathering on about mutualities and validation. Dean nodded, concurring about the eternal wisdom of what-the-fuck-ever, and flagged down a server. Naturally, all of the beers available were of the hippie organic microbrew variety, but any port in a storm would do the trick, he figured.

“He’s good for you,” Sam said, reaching across the table to gently punch Dean’s shoulder. “And I get the feeling you could be good for him, too. Just remember to keep communicating. That’s the area that brings most of the couples I see to my office in the first place.”

Dean grunted in a way that would probably pass for agreement. Time to try this talking thing again, he supposed.

Communication was entirely overrated. At least, communication of the verbal variety was. Body language, on the other hand, was a perfectly sensible way to connect, and _oh, fuck—_

“Dean,” Castiel sighed, arching his back so that his shoulders pressed harder into the wall ( _Hey, look, the crew finished priming it,_ an inane corner of Dean’s brain pointed out) and his hips pushed closer to Dean’s. His fingers were looped through Dean’s belt loops, holding him in place in a way that was completely unnecessary. Dean had zero plans to be anywhere else, after all.

God, he’d barely been home for ten minutes, and his head was already spinning terrifically. Castiel had been on him from the moment he’d come through the door, determined to make up for the hours they’d had to be apart. Unfortunately, just when things were really starting to heat up, Castiel pulled back, gently slowing his kisses until they were just dopily gazing at each other’s faces.

“Baseboards,” Castiel said, which made utterly no sense at all, and Dean blinked, trying to translate the word into something relevant to what they were presently doing. Castiel dropped his head to Dean’s shoulder, burrowing in. “We have…the baseboards. And they really need to be nailed in place so that we can finish the painting. You are very distracting.”

“Oh, I’m the one who’s distracting, am I?” Dean countered with disbelief. “Far as I can see, all I did was walk through the door. Barely walked, at that, seeing as I was mostly dragged.”

“Yes, because you distracted me, just by showing up looking like…” Moving his hands to Dean’s chest and gently pushing him back a step, Castiel gestured up and down Dean’s torso. “That.”

Dean peered down at his clothing. He was wearing an old tee shirt that said “Engineers do it until it hertz,” along with a plaid flannel and some worn-out jeans; it was getting close to laundry day. He looked back up at Castiel, raising his eyebrows in confusion. Castiel shrugged, his facial expression clearly communicating, _See what I mean?_

“Okay, fine, you tease. Keep it in your pants and get back to turning this shack into a house,” Dean said, throwing his hands in the air goodnaturedly. Taking a few steps backward, he plopped down on top of a packing crate and crossed his legs at the ankle.

“It’s really not anymore, you know,” Castiel said, winking as he adjusted himself ostentatiously. “Not a shack, I mean. Take a look around: the disgusting carpet is gone, the crumbling plaster has been repaired, and all the utility systems are up to code and working well. Just putting new fronts and hardware on your kitchen cabinets made a huge difference in that room, before we even put in the new fridge and range.”

“By the way, tell your guy thanks again for me. I cannot believe the deal he managed to get me on those,” Dean interjected.

“Not a problem. Benjamin knows I send plenty of business his way in exchange for the occasional price break,” Castiel said mildly. “The upstairs rooms weren’t terrible to begin with, outside of cosmetic repairs, but the bathroom turned out far better than even I imagined. There’s actually not a whole lot left to do, other than the painting and the trim.”

As he spoke, Castiel’s eyes moved in an arc across the ceiling, as though he could see through walls and ceilings and assess every part of the structure from where he was standing. Dean, on the other hand, was scanning Castiel, and his stomach was doing a slow roll inside of him. He hadn’t really put together, until that very moment, that there was a very real shot clock ticking here, and he needed to get it together while he still had the luxury of this dedicated time with Castiel.

“I mean, I’ve still got a lot I want to do,” he protested. “Like…I need to hang curtains or blinds or something, or I’ll be flashing my neighbors every time I take a shower. And furniture, of course. My apartment was mostly furnished, and what I bought myself wouldn’t be enough to fill one of the rooms in this place. I don’t even own a decent dinner table.”

“But that’s the fun part,” Castiel said. “Pass me that nail gun, please.” He took the tool from Dean’s hand and crouched by the bottom of the wall. Dean watched him fire nails through the boards into the studs beyond, contemplating. The parts of his brain prone to negative thinking were muttering that Castiel’s casual dismissal was further evidence that he didn’t plan to be around long enough to worry about Dean’s home decorating woes. 

Then again, maybe he was just trying not to assume anything? After all, a couple of hot makeout sessions weren’t a promise of long-term commitment. Had Dean ever even mentioned anything about how he himself was looking for more than hit-it-and-quit-it flings at this point in his life? He couldn’t honestly remember whether it had come up in conversation. 

_Time to back the hell up, Winchester, and quit tip-toeing around like you’re still worried that the floors are going to cave in. First, find out where his head is. See if he’s just scratching an itch or open to more._

“So let me ask you something,” he said, aiming for a casual tone. “I’m curious. You spend all day working on other people’s houses. Where’s a guy like you live? You build your own place, too? Someplace with a big yard for those future beehives?” 

“You’re going to mock,” Castiel said, brushing away the burrs from the last nail he’d sunk. “I’m actually only renting.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m serious!” Castiel protested, laughing in embarrassment. “And in one of those newer buildings, too, where you’re not allowed to do more than put a few tiny nails in the wall to hang pictures. Every time something needs to be repaired, I end up looking over my shoulder as I do it, just in case the building super comes to investigate the noise and has me evicted.”

“Oh, man. That’s terrible.” Dean was getting distracted from where he’d been steering the conversation again, but he couldn’t help enjoying the way Castiel’s cheeks were turning pink.

“And, I mean, I do have plans for something of my own, someday,” Castiel continued. “I just have never reached the point where I’ve been able to say, definitively, that I know where I can see myself in ten years. Every time I’ve tried, there’s been something in the way—something that has me saying ‘not yet.’”

“I get that,” Dean said, immediately seizing his opportunity. “That’s actually kind of where I’ve been, too. Guess I finally got tired of it, though. What’s the point of working so hard to build a nest egg if you never get around to making a nest, you know?”

“Or a hive,” Castiel said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sure,” Dean agreed, grinning. “But I’ve got a good, stable job, or at least as stable as academia ever is. I’m in an area where I’m happy to settle down, and roots are starting to sound pretty damn good to me. Think my tumbleweed days are in the past. Uh, how about you?”

Castiel flipped down the trigger guard on the nail gun. Turning to face Dean, he tilted his head and lifted a single brow. “Dean Winchester,” he said, sounding entertained. “Are you trying to obliquely ascertain my intentions?”

Dean gulped, feeling intensely discomfited at being caught out so quickly. “Um,” he said. “Maybe?”

Something about his expression must have revealed some of those treacherous worries he’d been fighting, because Castiel’s sly grin suddenly softened. “All you need to do is ask. The last thing I’d want to do is play games with you on this, especially since I think we’ve been doing quite enough pretending for the benefit of other people. I also fear that I would have you at a disadvantage if I tried. Your face, Dean, is so wonderfully open—when you’re happy, angry, or aroused, every bit of it is right there for me to see. To not offer you clear honesty in return would be unfair.” 

“You saying I have no poker face?” Dean wasn’t sure he liked being so transparent, even if he’d been reassured that it wouldn’t be used against him.

Castiel snorted. “I have either been spending way too much time in the presence of my brother, or else my current level of sexual frustration is robbing me of any sort of tact. Either way, I refuse to exploit the opening you just gave me for jokes about poking faces, no matter how tempting. And no, you don’t.”

“Hmmph. If you get credit for that, then I get _all_ the points for not making any of the jokes I could have been making about _that,_ ” Dean said, pointing firmly at the nail gun. “What the hell, man? ‘Professional Nailer’? With a dial to adjust ‘driving power’? I deserve a damn medal.”

“If you think there’s a dick joke to be made about power tools that hasn’t already been made a hundred times over by someone in my line of work, you’re dreaming,” scoffed Castiel. His crooked, challenging smile stole Dean’s breath. “I’d be happy to hear you try, though. But back to your earlier question. My intentions.”

Carefully placing the nailer on the ground, Castiel knee-walked across the floor to the crate where Dean sat. The gleam in his eye had Dean uncertain about whether to scoot back or lean in, but Castiel didn’t give him the chance to make up his mind before he was kneeling astride Dean’s lower legs and caging him in with hands planted on either side of his hips. He was close enough that Dean could make out the tiny silver hairs that dotted the dark stubble along his jaw and chin.

“You teach science,” Castiel began. Dean started to interrupt, to clarify the common misconception a lot of people had about engineering being science and how scientists observe while engineers create, but he closed his mouth again at a sharp look from Castiel. “So I get why you’d have a difficult time when important information is left unspoken and unclear. Your brain works better when you have all the facts established from the beginning. Let me help. My ‘intent’ is to have you in any way that I can, in every way that you will allow me. I want you repeatedly, and on an ongoing basis, for the foreseeable future.”

“Repeatedly,” Dean echoed uncertainly. “So, like…”

Castiel made a noise of mild exasperation. “No, not like a regular hook-up. Not that you’re not criminally hot, but I’m interested in far more than that.”

Dean’s chest began to loosen, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Me, too,” he said with relief.

Castiel looked as though a teasing remark was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back, running his thumb over the seam on the hip of Dean’s jeans. “Good,” he replied, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he grinned back.

“So, should we start with an actual date, no faking anything?” Dean suggested. “Dinner, drinks? I’d say dancing, but most of my moves would probably be a bit old-fashioned for anyplace outside of a retirement home.”

“I’m happy to be wined and dined, and if you want to go jitterbugging in the middle of a downtown nightclub, I would love nothing more than to do that with you, as well,” Castiel said, “but Dean? I feel fairly strongly that ‘starting’ with that would be an unnecessary trial of my patience and yours.”

It was the soft flare of Castiel’s nostrils that tipped Dean off, and then he quickly realized that the pronounced dilation eclipsing the sparkling blue of those eyes was more than could be accounted for by the evening darkness. “But the baseboards,” he said in feigned protest. Hell, if Castiel could play around, then Dean could give right back.

Glancing around at the piles of wood, Castiel narrowed his eyes. “The nailer doesn’t require two hands,” he said. “I also have some boxes of loose finish nails that can be hammered manually. If we work together, we’d only need half the time to finish the work before the painters start showing up tomorrow morning.”

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to be helping though.”

“Do you want to have sex or not, Dean?” Castiel snapped, and Dean’s simmering arousal jumped to full boil so fast that he felt almost dizzy.

“Fuck the baseboards,” Dean earnestly agreed, earning a wolfish grin in response. Castiel closed the final inches between them, pressing his lips firmly to Dean’s. Unable to resist, Dean lifted both hands to the back of Castiel’s head, relishing the soft texture of his hair as he held him there, drawing out the kiss as long as he could.

When they broke apart, they were both glowing, unable to stop smiling. “Okay,” Castiel said, “now that that’s settled…” He moved his hands along Dean’s sides to the hem of his shirt, then pulled it upward, encouraging Dean to lift his arms so he could remove it. “God, you have no idea how many brain cells I’ve used up torturing myself with fantasies about this. Those damn freckles.” His eyes burned fiercely as, with the back of his hand, he softly brushed the skin along Dean’s chest. “Couldn’t stop wondering how many there were that I couldn’t see.”

Being the object of such close scrutiny made Dean want to squirm, but it also caused him to grow even harder in his jeans. “Spent a lot of time working outside without a shirt when I was younger, and they never really go away,” he mumbled. “Dude, they’re not exactly sexy.”

“Excuse me, but I don’t think you get to make that judgment,” Castiel said firmly. “I happen to find them _very_ appealing.” Leaning forward, he applied the tip of his tongue to a particularly large mass of freckles, tracing in circles as his eyelashes fluttered shut and he groaned.

“Shit,” Dean hissed as Castiel licked his way sideways toward one of his nipples. His hands flew backward onto the crate to support him, and he remembered at the last moment to avoid landing hard on the injury. He cursed again as Castiel closed his teeth around the nipple, biting gently. 

“I love the way your voice goes all hoarse when you’re aroused,” Castiel murmured against his skin. “I wonder how you’ll sound when you’re completely overwhelmed.” One of his hands slipped onto Dean’s lower back, pulling him closer to that hot mouth, and the other snuck between them and popped open the button on Dean’s fly. The sudden release, on a pair of jeans that was exceedingly well-worn, caused the straining zipper to drop an inch all on its own, as if even Dean’s clothing was keen to get this show on the road.

Struggling to sit up a little, Dean stammered a bit before managing to form any actual intelligible words. “Starting to get a…a little one-sided, here, Cas,” he gasped. Counter to his protestations, one of his hands flew reflexively back to Castiel’s head, urging him to keep going.

“Well, I never claimed to play fair,” Castiel laughed. Rocking back onto his heels before standing, he gripped the back of his own shirt’s neckline and yanked it up over his head and off before tossing it in the same general direction he’d thrown Dean’s. Now it was Dean’s turn to stare, because the man was _ripped_. It wasn’t that he had a bodybuilder’s sculpted physique, but the muscles on Castiel’s torso had been defined through hours of physical labor, and not a bit of him didn’t radiate power. Dean felt an irresistible urge to get his mouth on one of the hip bones jutting proudly above the waistline of his low-slung jeans.

“You know, I really was going to try to be a gentleman,” he said as he gave in to that urge, reeling Castiel in by his belt buckle to do it. “Let the record show that I was the one who suggested dinner and drinks. You were the one who suggested getting naked in a room full of power tools and other sharp objects.” With a soft jingle, the belt buckle was falling open, clearing the way for Dean to swiftly open Castiel’s fly. The jeans were loose enough that they almost fell from Castiel’s hips without assistance, but the man’s thighs proved more problematic. Unable to summon the patience to deal with that, Dean simply yanked his boxers down to join the jeans where they’d gotten stuck, then bent his head forward to wrap his lips around the head of Castiel’s cock.

“Ah, fuck, wait!” Castiel’s voice shook as he pulled back. Legs trapped as they were, he came very close to falling flat on his bare, gorgeous, ass, but he managed to catch his balance. “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” he chanted as he hopped on first one foot and then the other, trying to liberate himself from his work boots before he could wriggle his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. Dean couldn’t help cracking up as he watched; even this sex-on-legs contractor couldn’t make the sight of a hard cock bobbing around crazily as its owner tripped and stumbled and swore anything other than hilarious.

Luckily, Castiel wasn’t the least bit offended. “Not that I’m opposed in principle, but I think it might be a little early in the game for bondage,” he said, grinning widely as he stood in fully nude glory. He bent and rummaged in his nearby bag for a second, then made a triumphant sound as he pulled out a few foil packets. Dean nodded in concurrence; there would be plenty of time for blood tests and all that business later, he hoped.

“Well, aren’t you a tease after all,” he drawled with a wink as he leaned back again on the crate. “What if I had wanted to use some of these boards to whip up a quick spanking bench or something?”

Stepping back into Dean’s bubble of personal space and bending to run a hand through his hair, Castiel gazed down at him with a look of tenderness. “My safeword is ‘spackle,’” he said, maintaining a perfectly straight face for a few beats, only to lose it at the sight of Dean throwing his head back and cackling.

While he was still struggling to catch his breath, Dean plucked a condom out of Castiel’s grip and tore it open. Rolling it onto Castiel’s cock, he felt a thrill of satisfaction when he heard the breath catch above his head. With no sign of any further interruptions, he didn’t waste any more time in parting his lips around it and swallowing down, down, down as far as he could go. It had been some time since he’d done this, and he was pretty pleased with himself for not immediately choking. Castiel was impressively thick, stretching Dean’s lips in a most gratifying manner.

For all his brazenness until that point, it seemed Castiel had finally been driven to speechlessness. As Dean set about using his hands, tongue, and lips to take him apart down to the foundation, the air left Castiel’s lungs in a protracted exhale that ended on a groan. After that, the only word he appeared capable of remembering was Dean’s name—sometimes stammered, sometimes sighed, occasionally whimpered once Dean discovered the effectiveness of a particular combination of a serpentine tongue movement plus some firm thumb pressure applied just behind the balls.

Without warning, Castiel suddenly grabbed at the base of his cock, having to knock Dean’s fist out of the way. “Close,” he gasped, chest heaving. A fine layer of sweat coated his skin, causing his dark hair to curl and cling damply to his temples. He looked thoroughly debauched, and Dean felt smugly proud of having accomplished that.

“I mean, that was the general idea,” he said, smirking as he wiped at the corner of his mouth, which tingled and felt swollen to the touch.

Castiel glared sternly. “I do not intend for this to be over inside of fifteen minutes,” he growled. “Lift your legs.”

Well, okay, then. Dean wasn’t about to disobey, especially when the instruction was framed like an undeniable command. Before he could give conscious thought to it, Dean was rocking backward on the crate, raising his legs in front of him. In short order, Castiel had his jeans and boxers jerked to his ankles and then off, taking his shoes with them. Then Castiel paused, standing over him and studying him in a predatory manner.

“It’s my turn,” he said, bending over and bracing himself with arms on either side of Dean’s head. He kissed Dean deeply, claiming his mouth and stealing his breath until Dean felt light-headed. Breaking the kiss, Castiel began slowly but inexorably working his way downward, humming and moaning as though he’d never tasted anything better on his tongue.

When he reached the crease where Dean’s thigh met his groin, Dean heard the crinkle of foil. He expected the slight coolness of latex being rolled over his painfully hard cock, and, embarrassingly, he whined slightly when he was enclosed instead in a searing grip and stroked firmly. Several seconds later, when no rubber had materialized, he lifted his head questioningly, just in time to see Castiel bite the tip right off of the unrolled condom. Dean looked on in bewilderment as Castiel briefly removed his hand from Dean’s dick and tore the condom down the side. Then a strong forearm under his knees was pushing them up toward his chest, and Castiel was lowering his head between Dean’s legs, and…

“Oh, _fu-uuuuuuuck._ ” The scorching heat of Castiel’s tongue felt like it was burning straight through the thin barrier, setting every nerve on fire as he licked in tiny circles around Dean’s hole. The back of Dean’s head hit the crate with an audible thunk, and there was probably going to be a lump there later, but he wouldn’t have cared even if he’d concussed himself. Grabbing at the backs of his thighs, he shamelessly tried to bare himself further, wanting even more.

With Dean doing the work of holding himself, Castiel was free to get his hand back around Dean’s cock, and after that it was just a chaos of sensation that he couldn’t disentangle. His legs trembled, his perspiring hands struggling to keep hold. The soft, eager noises Castiel was making as he ate Dean out, along with the slick sounds of his fist pumping mercilessly along Dean’s shaft, were creating an obscene cacophony that had him blushing all the way to his toes. Finally, with one quick movement, a finger pressed into Dean’s hole alongside Castiel’s tongue, and Dean was gone, coming hard all over his stomach and Castiel’s hand. He worked Dean through the last tremors of his orgasm before lifting his head once more, looking almost manic with desire.

Dean sagged, letting his legs drop as Castiel practically fell on top of him, kissing him to within an inch of his life. Panting hard, Castiel gasped into his mouth, nearly slurring his words as he tried to speak. “I have to…can I please…”

“Anything,” Dean managed to say, thoroughly meaning it. Did Castiel want him to sprout wings and fly around the room? Sure, give him a few minutes to breathe, and then he’d try. What it turned out that he wanted, though, was much more simple. Dean’s legs were once more lifted into the air, braced on Castiel’s shoulders, as with one hand Castiel quickly located the opened packet of lube lying nearby (seriously, how prepared was this guy?) and used it to coat the inside of Dean’s thighs. Squeezing Dean’s legs together, then, Castiel groaned hoarsely as he pushed his neglected cock into the slick, tight space between them.

In a sated daze, Dean could only lie back in total awe of the unbelievably hot scene playing out above him. Castiel’s eyes flashed, his jaw clenched, and the muscles in his torso rippled as he thrust, fast and hard. The head of his cock kept slipping past the base of Dean’s sac, and if he’d been eighteen again, the friction might have been enough to stir things up for a second round. As things were, he could only dream wistfully of the nonexistent refractory periods of his youth when, with a broken cry that might have been his name, Castiel trembled through his own release.

“Wow,” Dean breathed. Spent, Castiel seemed to be using Dean’s legs to hold himself up, pressing his forehead to the sole of Dean’s foot as he tried to catch his own breath. A moment of dazed consideration later, Dean snickered. “I’d roll over and make room for you, but this crate ain’t really queen-sized.”

“Not to mention the potential splinters, which we probably should have considered,” Castiel replied in a voice muffled against Dean’s ankle. “I’m afraid OSHA didn’t write standards for this, but if they had, we’d be in strong violation.”

Shit. “If I have splinters in my backside, Cas, you’re helping me pick them out,” Dean warned. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face, though.

“Yes, I will accept full responsibility for your ass,” Castiel said. Smirking tiredly, he dropped a kiss onto Dean’s foot, then stepped back and gently let his legs fall. “After we get cleaned up, anyway. Come on, I’ve been jealous of your new shower since I installed it, and now I finally get the chance to try it for myself.”

Dean watched as, sweat-covered and still flushed, Castiel walked out of the room. The subtle bounce of muscle in that perfect, round ass had him sighing happily. “Coming,” he said, wincing as he pried his skin away from the wooden crate. _Totally worth the splinters,_ he decided. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wants you all to practice safe sex, guys. He cares about your health, you know. :D


	9. Final Inspection: Now or Never

“You can just stick ‘em in the closet, I guess. There should be some space on the top shelf.”

Mrs. Tran kicked open the door to Dean’s office closet, then hoisted the small pile of blankets over her head. She had to stand on tiptoe to get them onto the shelf he’d suggested, and they almost toppled back down on top of her before Dean quickly stepped over and gave them a stabilizing push. Once they were settled, she stepped back and brushed her hands against her hips. “This office is dusty,” she sniffed, eyeing him as though he’d been deliberately subverting the efforts of the college’s custodians.

“Yeah, well, we don’t all strike fear in the hearts of the entire Facilities department,” Dean replied. It wasn’t even a joke; the single instance when Mrs. Tran had arrived in the morning to discover a folding table full of leftovers from a reception held the night before, there had been phone calls. He’d heard them all the way down the hall.

“Still,” she said without denying the accusation, “I don’t like Kevin using dusty blankets. He gets allergies.”

“I’ll dust the shelf,” Dean hastily promised. “I still don’t know how you found out about him crashing here if Meg didn’t rat.”

Mrs. Tran threw him an enigmatic look. “You think there’s much that goes on in this building that I don’t know about?” she said. “But I’d rather him sleep safely in here than on a couch in the faculty bathroom or somewhere else equally disgusting. Tell him those are your blankets, or else he’ll be stubborn about using them.”

Dean shrugged, not at all about to get in the middle of that strange family dynamic. “Anything you say, ma’am,” he replied agreeably.

“Hmmph,” she said, not sounding convinced. “Speaking of things I know about, I want to see those pictures you’ve been flashing around.”

His eyebrows flew upward. “I only showed Meg,” he said with surprise, “and that was out in the parking lot, before we even made it into the building today. Seriously, do you have a network of spies or something?” Pulling his phone from his pocket, Dean swiped to unlock it and pull up his photo album. Mrs. Tran plucked it from his hands to scroll through the stored images.

“Very nice,” she said. “I’m quite impressed. Frankly, I didn’t expect this level of charm.”

“Hey, give me some credit. I have taste.” He felt like taking his phone back, but that sort of self-sabotage was a step too far, even for him.

She swiped to another picture. “That’s a very attractive blue,” she said. “Excellent feng shui. Is this the east side of the house?”

“Um,” hedged Dean, trying to orient the direction of his home and place his office within that framework. “I think so? It’s actually sort of angled, so maybe more south-east.” He didn’t know anything at all about feng shui or ley lines or any of that stuff, but he figured it was better to let Mrs. Tran go on thinking that than to tell her he’d chosen the color based on his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Nice choice on the light fixture. Very good lighting for food preparation. It will also show every single fingerprint on those stainless appliances, and you’ll never keep them clean enough. Just wait until you have children. Hoo, boy, then you’ll really see.” She looked up sharply when he didn’t quite suppress his choking sound. “Don’t bother acting so shocked, Dean. And don’t act like it’s not an option, either. Plenty of same-sex couples find ways to have children. Your mother would want grandchildren, rest her soul.”

“Mom lives in Florida with her cousin Sandra.”

“Resting her soul, yes.” Rolling her eyes as though he was being deliberately obtuse, Mrs. Tran handed him his phone and headed for the door. “You must be relieved that all that renovation work is finally finished. Now you can just relax and enjoy your new home. I expect an invitation to the housewarming.”

“Absolutely,” Dean said absently, already fighting back the low swell of tension that had begun to arise every time someone referred to the completion of his home repairs. Everyone seemed to think he ought to be grateful to see the end of all the power tools and drop cloths; they assumed he was more than ready to wash the last paint splatters off his tired hands and and move on to the “good part” of the whole process. Of course, most of them had no clue about the covert phone call to a contractor late one evening, let alone how such a phone call had led to one of the most unexpected, amazing plot twists of his life.

He wasn’t ready for it to end.

In the week since he and Castiel had thoroughly broken in his new living room, they’d made it a point to similarly enjoy all the rest of the rooms in the house, from the floor of the office (where Castiel had pounded him into a frenzy) to the kitchen counter (as well as up against the fridge, where Dean had already discovered the truth of Mrs. Tran’s warning about fingerprints, as well as other kinds of prints, on stainless steel). There had been one rather mortifying experience when, while christening the bathroom, Dean had managed to accidentally dial Sam when he’d dropped to his knees on their pile of discarded clothing. The events that ensued had been traumatizing for all involved, but at least Dean was no longer remotely concerned about Sam doubting the validity of his relationship. Castiel’s deep moans were exceptionally resonant in that room, what with all the tile.

All told, Dean should have been feeling like the cat who got the cream, both figuratively and salaciously, but there was still that niggling doubt in the back of his mind. Was this just a fantastic fling, and would everything fizzle out now that, as Sam had pointed out, he and Castiel no longer had this project in common? They would no longer have a ready-made, built-in excuse to see each other nearly every night; Castiel would have other projects, other clients. Dean would sit by himself in his calming blue office, reminded every time he looked around that there had once been something amazing that transpired there. He kept trying hard to revise that mental picture, to add in the sound of the door cracking open and a gravelly voice calling out to announce his presence, but that part kept slipping away, replaced by images of a dining table set for one, or a queen-sized bed with cold sheets on one side.

There was no reason he should be getting this agitated; they had been together for such a short time, and Castiel had given him no indication that he was anything but thrilled to be with him. Even so, Dean couldn’t help doing what he always did in situations of uncertainty: he worried.

“Dean, are you kidding me? Look at this dining room!” Sam’s eyes were going to pop right out of his head if he didn’t calm down a little, and Dean was trying very hard not to feel affronted by the sheer surprise in his brother’s reactions. After all, it really was warranted, even if he was still pretending it wasn’t.

“I can’t wait for Eileen to see the bathroom job, compared to your ‘before’ picture. Actually, wait. Yes, I can, because she’s totally going to want to redo our bathroom next. Hey, now that you’re practically a professional, you want to do ours?” Sam, chuckling, was too busy looking around the room to notice Dean’s blush.

“That was actually mostly Cas’s work, really,” Dean said. _Mostly, hah._ The moment he spoke, Dean had a sudden flash of Sam asking Castiel to do his bathroom, followed by the unravelling of the lie about Castiel’s actual profession if Sam kept pressing. Dean wouldn’t put it past Gabriel to poke his nose in if he suspected Castiel was branching out on the side.

Sam shook his head. “Maybe so, but damn, Dean. You guys did an amazing job. I can’t believe it. Got to say, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

There were those squirmy feelings of guilt again. “Hey, you had no way of knowing. I mean, I never did anything like this before.” _And I still haven’t. Not really, anyway._

“Well, everything has to be done for the first time before you get to say you’ve done it. Your first time just happened to go, like, unbelievably well. Aside from the hand injury, of course. When do the stitches come out?”

“End of this week. Doctor said there’d probably be a gnarly scar, but the stuff that Gad gave me really worked, even if it smells like fermenting horseradish.” Sam frowned curiously, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek in vexation. “Uh, he’s an old friend of Cas’s. Weird guy. Doesn’t get out much. You’ll probably never see him around or anything.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said, chuckling. “I think I’ll manage. Uh, fermenting horseradish, you say?”

“Don’t ask about things you don’t want to know, man.”

Nodding, Sam let it drop. “Anyway, I really am sorry. I gave you a hard time, and I shouldn’t have, even if you hadn’t gone and proved I was wrong about what you were capable of doing. I was being an unsupportive jerk.”

Dean studied Sam’s face for a moment. “Eileen tell you that?”

“Yeah, and she stole my shoe.”

Snorting with laughter, Dean headed for the fridge to grab a couple of beers. “She steals shoes? Really? Does that work?”

Sam grimaced as he took his bottle from Dean and cracked it open. “I had to wear the ones that pinch. It sucked.”

“Jesus. You guys are perfect for each other, you know that?”

Reaching across the counter, Sam punched Dean on the shoulder. “You and Cas, too. I don’t know if you can see what the rest of us see, but it’s so obvious. He’s been really good for you.”

“What, are you saying I’ve changed?” Dean said thoughtfully. He dragged a stool from under the counter and sank onto it. Sam mirrored him on the opposite side, sighing as he took the weight off his legs. Goddamn, he’d picked some comfortable seating, and Dean grinned as he said so.

“Well, you’re still a cocky jackass, clearly,” Sam said mildly. “No, I wouldn’t say you’ve changed so much, or at least not in any major way. You’re just…rounded, maybe. It wasn’t that you were incomplete without him, but you seem more settled, in a way. And I don’t think it’s just the whole buying a house thing, either, or even just that you’re committed to one person. That’s external stuff. When I hear you talking about Cas, you sound…I dunno. Calmer.”

“Huh,” Dean considered. In a way, he could see it; the time he spent with Castiel, no matter what they were doing, always left him feeling like he’d taken off a mask. He didn’t have to be the polished academic, or the caretaker mother-hen archetype, or even the goofy bachelor with a wisecrack always at the ready. He could be all those things, all at once, as well as all the other sides of himself that he kept hidden and protected from judging eyes. Castiel saw right through him, refusing to let him hide. Dean wondered whether there was another person on earth for whom he didn’t have to play a role, and who wouldn’t even have let him get away with trying.

At the same time, though, the idea that he was living in some sort of zen state didn’t feel quite accurate. Now that he knew how amazing it felt to have this, the terror of losing it was that much more keen. 

“You’re thinking hard,” Sam observed. “What’s going on in there?” He wasn’t using his Freud voice; he seemed genuinely curious and concerned.

“It’s just that…you’re right, Cas is good for me. Awesome, actually. Meeting him, it was like a bombshell out of nowhere, when I wasn’t even looking, and when I try to imagine what my life would be like without him in it, I can’t…I…”

Sam took pity on him, saving him from having to put into words what he most dreaded. “Then don’t,” he said. “You’ve got him, and it’s okay to let yourself be happy about that.”

“But what if I screw it up?” Dean blurted. His knuckles were white where he was gripping his bottle, and he forced himself to relax his hand and put the drink down on the counter. “You remember what happened with Lisa. I thought that was going to work out, right up until she walked out because I wasn’t giving her what she needed. That completely blindsided me, Sam, and Lisa’s just the most recent time that happened. How many times have I fucked up potential relationships without even trying?”

“Well, first, let me just say that while Lisa was cool, you clearly weren’t into her the same way you’re into Cas. Even at the beginning, okay, you and Lisa were flirty and sweet with each other, but I never saw you just _staring_ at her, like you couldn’t believe she was real.” Dean screwed up his face, ready to protest that he wasn’t some douchebag in a cheesy Lifetime romance flick, but Sam cut him off. “Twice, Dean. Two separate times during our first dinner with him, I tried to ask you a question, and you didn’t even hear me because you were too busy making heart-eyes at him.”

“That’s…embarrassing,” Dean said under his breath.

“Only because you didn’t see him doing it right back. Jeez, when you and Eileen were talking about the journal article you just had published, Cas was watching you like you were the freaking sun in the sky. Lisa never did that, either.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said in a rush, trying not to combust. “But just because we’re crazy about each other right now doesn’t mean I won’t find a way to mess it all up in the future. You _know_ me, Sam. You’ve _seen_ me do it, over and over.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he shook his head in disagreement. “Stop trying to turn your past mistakes into some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy,” he said. “For one thing, relationships are two-sided, and you need to ditch the idea that all your bad breakups were entirely on you. But here’s the thing: if I was going to pick out one damaging thing that you really have had a pattern of repeating, it would be how resistant you can get about refusing to admit you’ve made mistakes until it’s too late to fix them.”

_Oh, you mean like inventing a boyfriend rather than telling you I bought a money pit?_ Dean had to pinch his lips to hide his chagrin. “Yeah, I’m trying to get better about that,” he said instead.

“I can see you are,” Sam said with a smile, oblivious to the hysterical laugh that tried to escape Dean’s lungs. “You and Cas couldn’t have put this place together like you did without some pretty excellent communication. Just keep that up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.” Dean drained his beer with a long gulp. “Can sharing and caring time be over now?”

“Sure thing,” Sam laughed. “I don’t think you’re in any kind of danger of having Cas walk out on you like Lisa did, anyway. If I remember right, her biggest beef was that you were spending more time at the college than with her, not making her a priority, right? That definitely doesn’t seem to be an issue with you and Cas. Every time I try to call you or get you to come out with me lately, you’re either with him or have plans to meet up with him in the near future. You two are practically joined at the hip.”

“Or I’m at work, or he’s at work, or we’re just doing our own thing, which totally happens. You don’t see him here right now, do you? But is it such a bad thing to want to be near the person you—” Dean’s tongue tripped. “Uh, the person you’re with?”

Sam’s smirk said that he knew perfectly well what Dean’s brain wasn’t ready to let him say out loud. “Only for your wallet,” he said. “Dating’s expensive these days.”

“Well, we’ve been a little too busy working on this place to hit a whole lot of movies or white tablecloth restaurants.” Clearing the empty bottles to the recycling bin gave Dean an excuse to turn away so that he didn’t have to worry what his face was revealing. His brain was working overtime, considering. He definitely didn’t want to let the amount of time he spent with Cas suffer, just because the house was finished. 

When the simplest answer to his problem occurred to him, he almost laughed out loud.

“Oh, yeah, this is definitely better,” Dean groaned happily as he rocked back and forth on his knees. Behind him, he heard Castiel murmur his agreement, punctuated with tiny grunts in time with the sharp thrusts of his hips. Stretching out his arms along the soft sheets, Dean dropped his head and buried it into the memory foam mattress underneath them. “Love this bed.”

“Is the bed really what’s got your focus right now? I’m not doing my job very well,” Castiel said, right before pulling his cock out of Dean so that he could flip him onto his back. Dean barely had a moment to note that the mattress hadn’t so much as bounced, and then his breath was being driven from his lungs as Castiel shoved back inside, lifting Dean’s hips to rest on the front of his thighs.

“Shit! I just mean…you gotta admit…no way would this have worked—fuck! Right there! Ngh!—on the damn cot.” They’d definitely needed to find alternative, less vigorous, methods to employ in order to put that fragile thing to use.

“I suppose you’re right,” Castiel conceded as he paused his thrusts to grind deeply in tiny circles. “This is a far superior piece of furniture. For one thing, it has sturdy posts.” The bastard didn’t even look like he was breathing hard, even though he was flushed to his sternum and had visibly bitten his lip raw at some point when Dean had been unable to see. 

“Why do you think I picked this one?” Dean said, clenching hard on the next thrust and trying to wrap his lower legs around Castiel’s waist. “You more of a handcuff or a strap kind of guy? You look like a handcuff man.”

“Ropes,” Castiel said, eyelids fluttering and jaw tightening as he fought for control. “Always have plenty on hand. Lots of ways to get creative. Was just imagining you…your legs completely bound to those posts…right at the edge of the mattress…so many things I could do…” Without warning, perhaps as the description of his fantasy wound up being a little too effective, Castiel’s hips suddenly jerked forward erratically, slamming into Dean hard. Dean was caught completely unguarded, and his orgasm didn’t so much creep up on him as violently explode through him.

A few moments later, when he at last managed to open his eyes and unlock his jaw from its frozen-wide position, he found Castiel staring down at him, facial expression caught somewhere between awed and proud. “Okay, sex god,” Dean croaked through a throat now sore, rolling his eyes as he grinned tiredly. “You win this round.”

Castiel let Dean’s legs drop to the bed on either side of him as he leaned forward to claim Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean was startled to realize that Castiel was still hard inside him. “But the round’s not over yet,” murmured Castiel as he broke the kiss, and Dean threw an arm over his eyes as he prepared for more.

Much, much later, when they were both finally lying side-by-side in exhausted repletion, Dean turned his head to the side to brush his mouth against Castiel’s warm shoulder. “I should put this on your Yelp review,” he joked. “A-plus home renovation, house looks amazing, guaranteed best orgasms of your life.”

Castiel retaliated by nudging him with an elbow to his ribs, which would have been more effective if either of them had any strength left. “Good thing you won’t have any roommates here, or else we really should have considered sound absorption features for this room. Then again, your neighbors might appreciate it if we went ahead and soundproofed the whole house. Have you always been so loud in bed, or am I special?”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered, blushing. “You know you are.”

Castiel rolled onto his side, stopping Dean from trying to hide his face against his shoulder. “I like hearing you say it,” he said softly. “For the record, you’re something special to me, too.” The way Castiel was looking at him with such softness, along with the words, had Dean feeling even warmer in his core than he’d already been. Snaking his fingers through damp strands of hair, he pulled Castiel’s face closer for a deep kiss.

“You know,” he said afterward, “that’s not actually a bad idea. I mean, do I really want my neighbors knowing what I get up to in my own house? Not just sex, but if I wanted to listen to my music as loud as it deserves, or if I have a bunch of people over? How complicated would it be if I wanted to soundproof?”

Castiel lifted an eyebrow, apparently trying to gauge whether or not Dean was being serious. “I was only joking, Dean,” he said. “You’re not actually loud enough to warrant whole-house soundproofing. Well, at least not from sex that meets most societal norms. Should I be more concerned about your handcuffs comment? Did we enlarge your closet so you’d have room for a collection of whips and chains?”

Dean huffed a laugh, rolling to his other side so he could nestle his hips back into Castiel’s lap. “Nah, you’ll have to use your hand if you feel like taking a swat at my ass. Anyway, that shit would totally be more appropriate for a basement sex dungeon. Hey, what if I wanted to do something with my basement?”

“Dean, I am not building you a sex dungeon.”

“Shut up, pervert. I meant, like, a game room. For poker or foosball, not Pin the Nipple Clamps on the Sex Slave. Put in some flooring over the concrete, some drywall and lighting other than the bare bulbs, add some heating? I’ve got a lot of room down there, and it’s kind of being wasted right now. How long would it take to fix that up and make it cool?”

“It depends on how ‘cool’ you want it to be. A simple basement finish job can be done very quickly and easily. I think you could probably make something really nice out of what you have, especially since you have that outside entrance along the side. But why are you thinking about that now? You have three bedrooms, plus your office. How many people are you planning on having here regularly that would prevent you from just turning one of those rooms into a game room or study?”

“You never know, right?” Dean asked, shrugging from within the circle of Castiel’s arms. _Dammit, why is Cas making this difficult?_ “The basement game room’s a classic. You don’t want your bedrooms to get all stinky from cigar smoke, or whatever else kind of smoke.” Castiel snorted, kissing his shoulder and idly running his hand back and forth on Dean’s chest. “Besides, we could wire it for sound, too.”

Castiel’s hand kept stroking, circling around leisurely around one of Dean’s nipples. “We?”

“Well, yeah. You don’t think I want to try doing it on my own, do you? You remember me and Hannah shouting back and forth to each other through the walls when we were rewiring upstairs? You gotta have somebody on the other end to help pull the cables and wires, or it’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, certainly. I know exactly where you’re coming from.”

“Good,” Dean said. He closed his eyes, enjoying the delicate brushing of fingertips against sensitive skin. “I like the idea even more the more I think about it. That outside entrance will be great for people who want to step outside for some air, too. But…you know, it’s kind of a narrow stairwell. Not exactly a comfortable place to just hang out.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Castiel agreed, sounding a little amused. 

“But, I mean, if I ran a fence along there, with a gate at the front corner of the house, then somehow connected it to a privacy fence around the edges of the backyard, then I could turn that tiny little back porch into a wrap-around deck. Guests could come up those stairs and climb right onto an amazing loungey type area, maybe with some funky built-in seating.”

“That sounds incredible,” said Castiel. His hand moved southward, caressing Dean’s stomach lightly.

“I know, right?” Dean grinned, jumping a little as those fingers found a particularly ticklish spot. 

“And, of course, you’d want to make sure the landscaping was up to the level of your deck,” Castiel suggested. “Perhaps some contoured beds around the edges? Nothing too high-maintenance, but a few bushes and edging plants to make it look a little more polished?”

“Sure,” said Dean, though he’d really never given a whole lot of thought to plants. “I like green stuff.”

“You know that you’ve got a couple of mature beech trees in the corner of the yard. They’re close enough to each other to support a hammock between them. I could see a nice pavement stone path to them, maybe with some in-ground well lights so you could use it at night.”

“I guess, sure,” Dean concurred, a little more warily. “If we’re already doing the deck, we might as well, right?”

“And naturally, you’ll want an in-ground pool back there.”

“Uh,” Dean said. “Do—do you really think I…I mean, I guess—”

“Dean.” Putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder and gently but firmly tipping him onto his back, Castiel climbed on top of him, holding himself up with straight arms. “Are you just trying to come up with ways to keep working on this house because you don’t want it to be done yet?”

Biting his lip, Dean tried for an innocent grin. “You don’t think this place could use a cool as hell basement game room?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Castiel said, ducking his head to bite softly at Dean’s collarbone. “I’d be happy to help out with whatever you want to do to this house, now or in the future, but if you’re brainstorming ideas just to have excuses to keep me here, there are much easier ways to do that.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Letting his own hands drift downward over his boyfriend’s hips, Dean felt his heart rate start to quicken again. He probably wasn’t getting it up again anytime soon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the lazy pleasure of a little post-coital handsiness. 

“Like…dance lessons,” Castiel said in a voice so deep and full of seduction that Dean was parsing it for the double entendre before he realized that it had been meant literally. “I really have always wanted to learn. I want to push your coffee table to the side of the room, power up your behemoth of a sound system, and step all over your toes while you keep count in my ear.”

“I can do that,” Dean said, imagining it. “I mean, we did kind of tell Eileen we’d help out with that at the center.”

“Also, your brother still thinks I’m working with you on your fitness level,” Castiel said with a leer. 

“If you think you’re getting me to run marathons…” Dean began.

“God forbid,” Castiel laughed, dropping down onto his side and curling up to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. They both lay in comfortable silence for a bit, legs tangled together and arms wrapped around each other. Dean couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt more at peace. The soft light from the bedside lamps gave the cool grey of the walls a subtle shine, and remembering how he and Castiel had shared a satisfied kiss after they laid the final coat would never cease to make him smile.

“Can you imagine if I hadn’t called you guys that night?” A small disgruntled noise came from the man in his arms, and Dean tightened his embrace in quiet reassurance. “Like, if I hadn’t been willing to admit how badly I misjudged what I could do on my own. I wonder how far I’d have gotten before it all crashed down around my head. Maybe literally.”

“I doubt you would have let it get that bad. It doesn’t matter, though. You did call, and my brother did try to turn it into a prank on me, and somehow we managed to make our way here, to this point, with us together in this fantastic bed in your gorgeous bedroom in your perfect new house.” Castiel punctuated his statement with a lopsided kiss on Dean’s chest.

Dean hummed in appreciation. “It is perfect, isn’t it?” he said, just before a yawn cracked his jaw. Exhaustion and contentment were dragging his eyelids down, and he halfheartedly tried to hook his toes in the sheets crumpled at their feet, attempting to pull them up over their legs.

“Almost perfect,” Castiel corrected. The caveat took a moment to register through the sleepy haze in Dean’s head, and when it did, he opened his eyes again to find Castiel grinning impishly up at him. 

“Almost?”

“You might have talked me into the deck idea,” Castiel confessed with a shrug, and, really, Dean had no other choice but to roll them both over and launch a massive attack on Castiel’s ribs with his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done!


	10. Move-In Day (Or: Adventures in Inappropriate Housewarming Gifts)

**Three Months Later**

“Well, it took you long enough, but I have to hand it to you. It’s one hell of a housewarming party.” Sam angled his drink toward Dean in a salute, and Dean met it with his own, clinking the bottle neatly before tipping it back and pulling a long swallow from it. 

The party was, in fact, a much nicer one than he could have had if he’d hosted it back when he’d shown Sam around the place the first time. He’d been proud then, but now…

People were milling in and out of the house, with music following on both indoor and outdoor speakers. The outdoor sound system was built into a pergola that formed the center of the large modified-wood deck wrapping around two sides of the house. Wide steps led downward from the deck onto a smaller patio, where Dean was currently manning the grill.

“The timing worked out better this way, too,” Dean said. The extra three months had pushed the housewarming party to the end of the summer, which meant that it was now serving double duty as a celebration for the start of the academic year. Half the faculty of the engineering college was either engaged in the high-stakes poker game taking place in the dining room, or else making bets on who they thought would win. Mrs. Tran, despite Dean’s repeated attempts to dissuade her, had placed herself in charge of keeping everybody’s plates filled; anyone who happened to have an empty hand found that it didn’t stay empty for long.

One of those paper plates was pushed into the space between the two brothers. “Burger me,” said the plate’s owner. “If you’ve got any more of that maple bacon left, go ahead and slap that on there, too.”

“You can’t even eat burgers without trying to sweeten them up, can you?” Dean sighed, then turned and got Gabriel his burger and a few strips of bacon from the foil-lined top rack of the grill. It was an extremely calculated risk, having Gabriel here at all, and only a carefully outlined plan had let Dean feel okay about taking it. It had only been a month since Castiel had finally, grudgingly, admitted that maybe he should let his brother in on the fact that he and Dean were dating, and he was now dealing with exactly as much shit as he’d feared. On the other hand, Gabriel had decided he actually liked Dean—though being on the receiving end of Gabriel’s “friendly” behavior had made Dean terrified of ever becoming his enemy.

“Hey, this sweet ass had to come from somewhere,” Gabriel retorted with a wink. He turned toward Sam then and made a dramatic show of letting his eyes slowly and dramatically rise from waist to face; standing close together, as they were, the difference in height between them was almost ludicrous. “Well, you’re tall,” he said simply, though his eyes sparkled with developing thoughts of mischief.

Before Sam could reply, Castiel arrived, with a hand plopped on Gabriel’s shoulder. It was clearly a gesture intended to restrain, though anyone looking on would have seen nothing but a friendly display of brotherly camaraderie. “There you are,” he said. “I see you’ve met Sam. Sam, this is my brother, Gabriel.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said, holding out a hand. Gabriel’s eyes lit up, and it was obvious that something horribly inappropriate was about to come out of his mouth, so Dean interrupted it by dropping a burger heavily onto Gabriel’s plate.

“There you are,” he said. “One burger with bacon. Hey, you think you could go get me an El Sol from the fridge inside? They’re all gone from the coolers out here.”

Castiel jumped in immediately to back Dean up. “I was actually just coming over to get you because there’s somebody inside I want you to meet. Sam, good to see you,” he said as he firmly steered his brother in the direction of the door. Dean breathed a sigh of relief; one of the primary goals of their plan had been to prevent any extended contact between their brothers.

_“You realize it’s not a feasible long-term plan?” Castiel said, sitting sideways on the sofa with his feet in Dean’s lap. He’d had a very long day on his feet, and Dean was doing his best to rub the ache away. One especially sensitive spot along the arch pulled a deep groan from Castiel when his thumb found it, and he grinned smugly as he focused his massage there._

_“I know, babe,” he said. “I really do have a plan to tell Sam the whole messy truth, but I want to do it on my terms, and not in the middle of a big social gathering. I’m not worried anymore that he’s going to take it badly, but he’s definitely not going to let me off easy without at least a little torture.”_

_Castiel nodded his agreement. “The rest of our friends in the crew can be trusted if I tell them to avoid talking business at the party. Gabriel, though…it would be like fresh blood in ocean water if I asked him to avoid any particular subjects. It’ll already be hard enough to keep him on his best behavior. You don’t want to know what sort of housewarming gift he planned to give you until I stopped him.”_

_“I’ll trust you on that,” Dean said with a shudder. “I owe you one.”_

_Grinning, Castiel bent at the waist, raising his upper body toward Dean. “I’ll put it on your tab,” he said as he wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and pulled him back down on top of him._

Sam watched the brothers leave, forehead wrinkled as he considered them. “Wow, talk about different,” he said. “Step-brothers?”

“More like switched by aliens, from what Cas says,” Dean replied. “Also, Gabe’s into some weird multi-level marketing stuff right now. Some kind of tomato-based weight loss drink or something. You probably want to avoid him as much as you can, or else he’ll be trying to recruit you into his network.”

“Yikes, say no more,” Sam said, grimacing. “I better go warn Eileen. Thanks for the heads up!”

Sure, he felt a little guilty, but Dean rationalized that, really, he was doing Sam a favor with that particular fib, and Gabriel himself would probably have found it funny.

A few minutes later, Castiel returned, sagging into Dean’s back with a whimper. “Can I tag out yet?” he begged. “I think you can take a break from the grill, since most people have finished eating dinner and have moved on to the desserts. I can handle any extra requests as they come, so long as you play Gabe handler for a while.”

“C’mon, he’s not been that bad today,” Dean laughed, turning to give Castiel a comforting hug. 

Castiel lifted his face from where it was buried in Dean’s chest and glared up at him. “He said he was going to make a phone call, and I caught him trying to put shrink wrap on your toilets.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said. He pulled Castiel’s head back toward him, running his fingers soothingly through his hair. “So where is he now? Who’s got a line of sight on him?”

“He joined the poker game, so he’ll probably be occupied for a while with that. He’ll cheat, but he’s pretty bad at it, since he can’t keep from smirking when he’s doing it.”

“That’s okay. The associate dean cheats, too, but she’s excellent at it. And the rest of the faculty knows it, too, but they’re all too afraid of her to say anything. Remember her, the dark-haired woman I introduced you to? Weird tribal tattoo on the side of her chest?”

“Oh, God. Her. Yes, when I left the room, she was eyeing Gabe like she was going to eat his soul rather than take his money. Now I feel a little sorry for him,” Castiel said.

“But not sorry enough to go save him?” Dean clarified, laughing when Castiel just shrugged noncommittally in reply. 

Despite Dean telling everybody not to worry about housewarming presents, a small pile of them had accumulated on his coffee table while he’d been grilling. “Am I supposed to open these now or later?” he wondered, staring at them in bemusement.

“Now,” said Eileen, who’d been watching him. “We all want to see! And after what I’ve heard, I’m dying to see your face when you open some of them.”

Dean threw a look toward Castiel, who held up his palms helplessly. Sighing, Dean turned to locate Gabriel in the crowd, but he was still hanging on by his fingernails in the card game, which had turned into a brutal bloodbath of a contest. “All right, folks,” he finally said, “if you’re here and I count you among my friends, then it’s a safe bet that you’re not easily offended anyway, but just in case, this might be a good time to go grab a drink and enjoy the deck.” Naturally, his warning only served to pull more people in to watch.

Dean settled himself on the couch, then tilted his head in invitation to Castiel, who obligingly settled himself at Dean’s side. Everyone present had by now been introduced to him as Dean’s boyfriend, so nobody batted an eye at how the two of them fell naturally into sharing the focus of the party; the Deus Ex crew might have been hiding their amusement over their fellow contractor now co-hosting the housewarming celebration, but all the teasing was well-intentioned and followed up with words of congratulations on the budding relationship.

The first gift bag Dean pulled from the pile had him cringing when he peeked inside. “They’re all going to be like this, aren’t they?” he said, pulling a couple of large bottles from the bag. “Poo-pourri? Really?”

“Consider it a token of affection from someone who’s had to use the faculty bathroom after you a few too many times,” said Arthur, a visiting civil engineering lecturer from England. He accepted the slaps on the back and loud guffaws with an acknowledging bow of his head.

“Oh, God, please use that,” Sam chimed in. “I still have war flashbacks from when we were still living at home together. It was so bad, I felt like using kerosene and a match instead of regular toilet cleaner.”

A throat cleared quietly. “Please don’t put kerosene in your toilet,” said Gad, who was standing on the other side of the circle surrounding Dean. His face and tone of voice clearly said that he’d seen enough in his career that he could no longer assume anything was meant as a joke.

Mrs. Tran had gifted a stack of sensible but soft towels, and his new next-door neighbor, a motherly older woman named Missouri, had wrapped up a large basket of quality spices in jars. After opening those gifts, though, Dean pulled the cover off of a loosely wrapped potted plant and his eyes popped.

“Who the hell gave me a weed plant?” he choked, head whipping around the crowd. Castiel had his head buried in a cushion as he shook with hysterics, Sam had his hands clapped over his face, and the dean of the college…was in the bathroom, thank God.

“It’s…it’s not really weed,” gasped Meg, who was laughing so hard she was in tears. Beside her, her partner in crime Ruby was in equally sad shape. “But holy shit, your face!”

“My cousin is a florist,” Ruby supplied. “This is a scarlet hibiscus. I promise, Dr. Winchester, once it starts blooming, it looks nothing like weed. It’s just a really pretty red flower. You know, one that happens…happens to start out looking like…”

“Yes, I get the joke now,” Dean said, trying to scowl but failing. “Thanks, girls. When I’m rocking the silver-haired distinguished professor look before I’m forty-five, I’ll owe you at least half the credit for it. Can somebody get me a drink, please?”

“Here,” Castiel said, wiping his eyes and passing Dean a bottle. “Open another one. There, that one looks safe.” It was a book—a thick, heavy volume titled _Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House._ Dean glanced at the tag, then raised his eyebrow at his brother.

“I swear, it’s not a joke,” Sam protested. “It’s actually a really good book. Lots of helpful information about how to manage a whole house.”

Dean flipped open the cover and thumbed through. “There are a hundred pages just on laundry, Sammy. If I need to read a hundred pages just to take care of my boxers, I need to rethink a whole bunch of life choices.”

“I could be interested,” Castiel said, taking the book into his own lap. Someone snorted. Without looking up, Castiel flipped his middle finger in the general direction of the sound. “I meant in general, not just about Dean’s underwear.”

_Christ._ Dean flailed for another package. “Okay, a doormat! Been meaning to pick up one of those. I never needed to have one back at my old…” He reread the words on the mat, then sighed. _“HOLD ON: WE’RE PROBABLY NOT WEARING PANTS,”_ read the large, bold message. “Why is this starting to feel more like a bachelor party than a housewarming?”

“Because it’s a bachelor’s house,” said Missouri. She looked way more at peace with all the risque humor than Dean would have expected her to be, and his appreciation for his new neighbor ticked up a notch. “‘You make an honest man out of that boyfriend of yours, and then maybe you can expect people to ease up on you.”

Dean heard a muttered, “Not fucking likely,” coming from somewhere in the knot of grad students, but he ignored it, noting instead the slight tension in the arm brushing against his. He didn’t have to glance sideways to know Castiel was blushing, the same way he did when any of their friends made jokes about them being an “old married couple” or teased them for being overly domestic. There was no denial in it, no awkward protests of untruth. Dean had grown much more adept at reading Castiel’s tells over the past several months, and he could tell what was really going on inside that head.

Or at least he hoped he could.

“Two more,” he said, looking back toward the table. Leaving the smaller box for last, he grabbed one that looked like a decorative basket with a floral-patterned cloth covering tied around the top with a delicate ribbon. Probably something from one of the older women on the college staff. Dean untied the ribbon, then pulled the cloth aside.

“Gabe!” Castiel shouted, starting to rise from the couch before Dean got a hand around his arm and pulled him back down. “You promised.”

“I promised no freaky things!” Gabriel laughed. “And I guarantee you, there’s nothing in that basket that can’t be considered practical.”

Maybe it was due to the focus of his academic field, but it took Dean an extra beat to catch up. His first thought was one of confusion, because it looked as though he was holding a tasteful gift basket of garage supplies. A moment later, it registered that the enormous cans of engine lubricant were cleverly designed, but not, in fact, intended for actual engines.

“This is…” he said, sort of dumbfounded as he pulled out a plastic tub of “ChASSis Wipes,” patterned after a pop-up dispenser for disposable shop rags. “I’m weirdly sort of impressed, Cas.”

Castiel’s baleful stare was turned upon Dean. “Do not encourage him, please! And, for the love of God, please stop looking around in there. I’m sure the layers get progressively worse the further you go down.” Gabriel, looking like Christmas had come early, opened his mouth, but Castiel whirled, finger leveled at his face. “No,” he snapped, and Gabriel relented, grinning hugely.

“Shhh, babe. It’s okay. No need to defend anyone’s honor around here,” Dean murmured into Castiel’s ear, wrapping an arm and him and rubbing a hand up and down along his bicep. “If you want, you can get all smitey after we have pie and ice cream. Kinda hot, with the whole murdery vibe you’ve got going, but save it for later, ‘kay?”

Castiel’s narrowed eyes said he did indeed tend to exact retribution from his brother before the evening was over, but he allowed Dean to tip his chin upward for a kiss, then gave a grudging little smile. “It better be good pie,” he replied.

“Redundant phrase,” Dean answered. They were still close enough that their noses were brushing lightly, and swarms of butterflies were taking flight in Dean’s stomach. That was standard for anytime they shared small intimate moments like this one, but there was another reason for Dean’s skin to be popping up goosebumps just then. “One more box to open, and then you’ll see.”

The last box was smaller than his fist, and it would have been easily missed under the larger pile of gifts. That is, it would have been missed had it been there from the start, and had Dean not, in fact, slipped it into the mix early on in the happy confusion of the unwrapping. Now he palmed it, tossing it lightly into the air. “This one’s making me nervous,” he said. “Scary things come in small packages, you know. Here, Cas, why don’t you take a guess about it before the paper comes off?”

Castiel looked at him oddly, but he took the box and shook it gently. “Something small,” he guessed. “Probably not a sex toy, though I’d no longer swear to that. Gift card?”

“Mmm,” Dean said. He’d grabbed his beer bottle from the table and was humming appreciation of it as he drank. Waving a hand in a circle, he urged Castiel on. “Go ahead and tear into it for me,” he said. “Want to finish my beer, here.”

“Dean, it’s your present—”

“I’m enjoying my drink! I’ve been grilling outside all afternoon, and I’m thirsty. C’mon, Cas.”

With an indulgent sigh, Castiel slipped a finger under the taped flaps on the ends of the box, neatly flipping them up so as not to tear the gift wrap. Dean rolled his eyes in fond exasperation at the methodical approach, but he kept quiet and didn’t interrupt. When the box was unwrapped, Castiel looked back at Dean, checking for permission once again, and Dean simply nodded. Castiel lifted the lid to look inside, then almost fumbled and dropped the whole thing in surprise.

“That new lock you installed in the front door had two keys, and I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking I only needed one of them for myself,” Dean said. Castiel lifted the silver key from the box with shaking fingers; it was attached to a burnished keychain shaped like a set of wings. “If you want it, I want you to hang onto that one for me.”

“You know, I already have a key to the house, to the back door,” Castiel said, his trembling rough voice barely rising above a whisper. “I’ve had it since the spring, so I could get inside to work, and—”

“Castiel.” Dean interrupted him with a finger placed over his lips. “It’s not about the key, you big dork. It’s about you using it to come home at night. To _your_ home. With me. You put enough work into it, and now I want you to share it with me. Is that…” He let the sentence die, searching Castiel’s eyes for an answer. His throat felt tight with a small surge of anxiousness. 

With Dean’s finger still pressed to his lips, Castiel smiled slowly, widening as his eyes started to glisten with emotion. He nodded, not dislodging Dean’s hand. Then he threw himself forward at Dean, flinging his arms around him tightly. The group close by to them made awww-ing sounds at the sight, while those in the rear who hadn’t been able to hear the murmured discussion clamored for explanations.

Castiel’s tears were contagious, apparently, because Dean’s eyes had begun watering sympathetically. Blinking away the evidence, he cleared the tightness from his throat. “Guess it’s a triple celebration,” he said to the crowd. “Cas just said he’d move in with me.”

From one side of the circle, a man’s voice teasingly said, “Finally!” At the same moment, another man on the other side said, sounding startled, “Already?” Staring at each other in confusion, Sam and Gabriel frowned, trying to make sense out of the other’s reaction.

“They’ve only been officially dating for, what, a month?” said Gabriel, crossing his arms and looking uncharacteristically bewildered.

“Uh, more like seven or eight,” Sam replied, head tilted in an equally perplexed fashion.

_Oh, shit,_ Dean thought, locking eyes with Castiel. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to handle this, and he was still racking his brain for one when Eileen burst into laughter. “You guys,” she said, giggling. “Sam, I can’t believe you still thought that was true.”

“What was true?” Sam looked hurt, and Eileen tried to stop laughing but failed, her face turning red with it.

“Castiel,” she said, pointing and addressing him. “You know that your face is on a billboard out along Old Route 32, by all the farms?”

Dean’s head whipped around on his neck to face Castiel, who looked equally stunned. “I forgot Gabe put that ad up,” he muttered. “It’s been years.”

“Physical trainer, hah,” Eileen said, gasping for air and wiping her eyes. “You guys are perfect for each other.”

“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Gabriel nearly begged, and Sam looked mutinous as he crossed the room to stand by the other man in solidarity. 

Castiel released a deep breath and dropped his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. “We’re in for it now,” he said. “Between the two of them, we’re totally screwed, aren’t we?”

“Let ‘em bring it,” Dean said. With his arm wrapped around Castiel’s waist, pressing the heat of their bodies together, and surrounded by friends and family, he felt fully and completely at home…and it had almost nothing to do with the house, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment or come tell me your own house repair horror stories, or just scream incoherently, over at my [Tumblr](http://carrieosity.tumblr.com). And don't forget to read the other Pinefest fics!


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